Something To Come Home To
by audi katia
Summary: Post-It Verse. AU set in 21st Century:: A connection between two people forms by degrees. Love is measured by how much you can help a person and how much a person heals you in return.
1. of Elbows and Burgers

_I have returned, fellow Star Trek lovers! After a few weeks of no updating/new stories, I bring you this AU. (It would have been here sooner, but silly college has been getting in the way.) Hopefully, I will be updating it fairly soon. I'd love to know what you guys think of this._

_**Notes**: This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. I'm not sure what sort of "verse" it is yet, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know! Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating._

_**Disclaimer**: If I owned Star Trek, I would use my money to build a transporter so that I wouldn't have to walk across campus in cold rain that soaks my jeans. Wet jeans in a math class. Not fun._

* * *

It was two in the morning and McCoy sat in his tiny chair watching random crap on the television. Its blue glow filled the studio apartment as infomercials tried to persuade him to buy their stupid product.

As if he was going to buy a damn useless product from people who just _looked_ as though they were missing chromosomes.

The bed was messy and empty just a few feet away, but he knew the minute he tried to go to sleep, that would be when the hospital would call him in for an emergency.

So he continued to sit in the chair, watching the flashing images before him as he ate the cold noodles from their Styrofoam container. The whole thing reminded him of college, but instead of a test the next day, he had an actual surgery.

_No home is complete without this complete set of Anne of Green Gables collectible figurines! Call 1-800-555-8393 now to add to your collection!_

The grinning woman with the lazy eye faded away from the screen as he hit the power button. The plastic prongs of his fork scrapped the empty bottom of his container now that he had finished eating his cold noodles. There was nothing left to delay the inevitable and he really did need some sleep before he could perform the surgery tomorrow.

Tossing the Styrofoam in the trash and falling unceremoniously into the bed, McCoy quickly started to fall asleep.

_Ring!_

"Dammit!"

* * *

Hospitals are never known for being particularly warm and heartfelt, but McCoy thought this one was especially cold. Which was surprising since it was San Francisco's best hospital and he thought that would have made it a bit better of a working environment, but even he would admit that he had the exact opposite of rose-colored glasses.

Still, the work there was the same as it was in Georgia except people here talked faster and their illnesses and injuries were usually due to some inebriated shit they had gotten themselves into. Maybe he should have been grateful to have been hired so quickly after leaving (_getting kicked out of_, more like) Georgia, but everything was just routine to him and he didn't even want to be here anyway. He just didn't have a choice.

The hospital might have been a few degrees better than the studio apartment though. He'd only been in San Francisco for a few weeks, but he knew he should finally unpack all those left over boxes because the ex had made it pretty damn clear that he wouldn't be going back to Georgia anytime soon.

But try as he might, he never could manage to get to the box that held the framed photos of a little girl with dimples. He only got as far as the boxes of medical journals and the refrigerator of whiskey.

* * *

It was a Thursday when he finally could not handle being in the apartment anymore. The lack of personal affects felt as though it might choke him and he wasn't even allowed to paint the walls anything other than their uniform-white.

He normally had Thursdays off from work, but, hell, he wasn't doing anything better and may as well make some more money. So he gathered his medical bag and checked the clock to see that he had about ten minutes before the metro near his apartment building would show up that would take him to the hospital.

It wasn't a far walk from the apartment, but he still had to rush to make it in time. Dammit, but he hated the subway. Dark and full of diseases and bodily fluids that had come from unsanitary places from strangers' bodies. And this was supposed to be a revolutionary way of traveling from place to place in the city?

Still internally grumbling about the lack of sanitation, he swung himself into one of the subway cars. He barely made it inside before the doors shut behind him. As he had rushed in, the medic bag on his shoulder had slipped. Annoyed at nothing in particular, he hoisted it further up his arm, jerking his arm around as he did so.

"Ow!"

He turned around to see a younger man standing next to him, clutching his eye. The train began to pick up some speed and the younger man, holding onto his eye and not onto the bar above him, slid over to fall against McCoy's side. For a moment, McCoy's vision was obscured by a head of tousled, dark blonde shag.

The younger man moved his hands away to grab the bar and pull himself away from McCoy. McCoy noticed that the man's eye was red and watery (and vividly, electrically _blue_) and he realized he must have elbowed him in the face by accident.

Maybe he should have been a bit guilty about what he had unintentionally done to the guy, but fuck it. He was having a bad day.

"You should have moved," he said gruffly.

The younger man's look of surprise shifted into one of amusement and he shrugged his shoulders as if to say "you're right." Then he turned his head away with a smirk, leaving McCoy to continue to sulk silently.

Two stops away from where McCoy needed to get off, the man beside him exited the subway. He gave a two fingered salute partnered with a wink before he stepped onto the platform.

McCoy wasn't really sure what just happened.

* * *

Why did he go to work again? People were stupid little infants who couldn't pull their heads out of their asses long enough to work their pea-sized brains around the concept of common sense.

His head nurse, Christine Chapel or something like that, was a bit of a relief. After he spoke with the patients, she had a way of persuading them not to file any reports against him and he supposed that was probably something he should be thankful to her for. She was fast, efficient, and didn't seem as much of an infant as some of the other interns seemed. After a few hours of paperwork and the occasional check-up, she managed to convince him to take advantage of his day off.

"Go get dinner or something," she gently suggested as she pushed him out the door. For such a petite woman, she was fiercely strong. "There's always tomorrow to do the work that you were assigned to do, well, _tomorrow_."

McCoy walked down the cement sidewalk next to the hospital, trying to decide what the hell he wanted to eat that night, when he heard some pounding behind him.

"Hey! Hey, Bones!"

San Francisco wasn't as bad as New York or other cities in regards to crazy people roaming the streets, but McCoy still had enough sense not to turn around. He kept walking forward, the scowl more pronounced on his face as he tugged his medic's bag tighter to his body.

But his new fan club didn't seem to be deterred by the obvious leave-me-the-fuck alone body language and ran up beside him, jogging to keep up with McCoy's quick pace.

"Hey, remember me?"

There was something in his voice that sounded so much like a goddamn puppy that McCoy actually did turn to face the other man.

Oh.

"It's you," he stated with all the eloquence of a jackhammer.

"Yeah, it's me," the man grinned, showing too many teeth. And they were all shiny and white in a way that McCoy was pretty sure wasn't natural. "I'll bet you thought you'd never see me again."

McCoy mumbled something in agreement, beginning to walk again. Much to his annoyance, the man continued to walk beside him.

"Jim Kirk," he offered. When McCoy did not respond, he kept at his cheerful pace. "I'm new in town and don't know where to get a good hamburger."

His voice dropped with hints, persuading McCoy to show him where to go.

"If I tell you, will you leave me alone?" McCoy asked out of the side of his mouth, turning the corner to head near the food streets near the hospital.

"It's the least you could do after assaulting my eye," Kirk said amiably. He flashed another smile and McCoy sighed.

If nothing else, he would get this man-child out of his hair.

* * *

Three days later and they were eating dinner together for the third time.

How the hell that happened, McCoy had no idea. James T. Kirk had been a part of his life for three days now and McCoy had already figured that if anyone could do the impossible, it would be him.

He sat across the small table, staring at his new acquaintance. He wasn't young enough to be a frat boy, but he was definitely old enough to not be so damn chipper about life. Wasn't that supposed to be knocked out of you by age twenty-two?

But this kid was maybe only a few years older than twenty-two and was lucky enough to have so far avoided that particular letdown. From McCoy's view, Kirk was tall, average build, nothing too out of the ordinary except maybe a bit more handsome than most. (Not that _he_ noticed that. It was something that all the women that seemed to follow him were fond of commenting on.)

His hair had an annoying way of falling into his face and Kirk would sloppily rake a hand over the offending strands to move them aside before they just fell back into place on his forehead. Blue eyes stared out from an open face that was more than just a bit pock-marked. McCoy assumed the tiny scars were from fights and the usual recklessness that came from little boys who thought they were invincible.

"Hmm, meat," Kirk said, his eyes shut in ecstasy as the grease from the burger started to seep out of the corners of his mouth. A quick tongue darted out to the side to catch the offending drip and he smacked his lips happily.

"Didn't your momma teach you manners?" McCoy asked disgustingly, staring at the greasy lips.

"I love how southern you are, Bones," Kirk answered, dodging the question with ease.

"Don't call me that," McCoy repeated for the god-only-knows time.

"Sorry, Bones," Kirk shrugged, talking around a mouthful of burger in a way that made McCoy want to sanitize the whole room, "but _Leonard_ is too much of a pansy-ass name." He crossed his eyes in exaggerated incredulity when he sounded out _Leonard_.

McCoy couldn't argue with that one. He never really did like his name.

"But _Bones_?" he asked, stressing the damn nickname in a way that should have made Kirk coil back in fear. Anyone else would have. But Kirk, he seemed to be cut of a different cloth.

"You had a boney elbow. It fucking hurt, Bones," he reminded him with a glint of humor in those damn blue eyes of his. "And you're a doctor. Clearly, I nailed that one."

The smirk just begged to be smacked off of him in the most satisfying way, but McCoy refused to give into the bait.

"You always get a burger," McCoy sidestepped, using the past three dinners as evidence to support his rather definitive claim.

"I like meat."

And when he bit down, it was with a bit more viciousness than necessary. There was that glint again.

* * *

For as much as Kirk talked, nothing he ever said was very substantial. It took McCoy a few minutes to realize that he knew basically nothing about the kid. Didn't know where he came from, where he was going, why he traveled, what his job was.

Shit. He knew his name and that he had a god-complex. Why the hell had he talked for him for so long? Why hadn't he just avoided him on that second day when Kirk found him at the hospital to ask him where he could find a good turkey burger?

Shit. Again.

But even though the only things Kirk ever talked about were stories of the countries he'd visited, or the girls he'd "gotten to know," or just random facts that he must have pulled out of his ass, McCoy found the sudden absence of his voice to be very apparent.

Kirk hadn't waited for him at the hospital for a few days. McCoy could only assume that Kirk had left to gallivant off to some other city or country. Apparently, it was something Kirk was oft to do. San Francisco had only been one stop on his seemingly endless and aimless journey.

The studio apartment was significantly more silent that night than it had been in a while.

* * *

_Did you laugh? Cry? Become emotionally compromised? Please review and let me know what you think! I hope you have enjoyed it so far!_


	2. of Chinatown and Photographs

_Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, alerted, favorite, and lurked! You are all wonderful and deserve good fortunes in life._

_Silly college is silly. And time consuming. I will try to update fairly regularly, but I don't have as much free time as I would like so I will do what I can to update on a regular basis._

_**Notes**: This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. I'm not sure what sort of "verse" it is yet, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know! Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating._

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Trek. BUT I DO OWN A SULU PLUSHIE THAT I MADE FOR MY SISTER. He's adorable and I love him._

* * *

Four months later and the pictures still hadn't made their way out of the packed box gathering dust in the corner of his apartment.

Work at the hospital carried on as usual, as it always would. Nurse Chapel had taken to admonishing McCoy about how much drinking he had done the night before. Even when he wasn't hung-over, she still seemed to be able to tell.

But, dammit, he did his work and he did it well. What the hell else mattered?

He woke up, did his work, paid the alimony checks on time.

Everything was as normal as it had ever been since he was forced to come to motherfucking California.

Except, he hadn't had a burger in four months.

* * *

July twenty-ninth was slowly approaching and even though the ex wouldn't allow him to talk to his own daughter, it wasn't Joanna's fault and he wanted to buy her a gift. He would buy one anyway because Joanna was his daughter and he loved her, but something about being forced to do it pissed him off.

_"And don't forget, my daughter's birthday is coming up," that nasally voice sounded through the phone line._

_"_Our_ daughter, you right hateful bitch," he answered, slamming down the phone._

As if he wouldn't buy her a gift. Damn women.

He stood outside a store with a predominately pink exterior, internally debating with himself. Sure, he could probably find something in there for Joanna, but at what cost? He'd have to actually enter a fucking pink store. He'd probably vomit unicorns and glitter for a week if he stepped foot across the magenta-painted threshold.

"Morning, sunshine," sounded a voice off to the side.

He whirled around to see Kirk smiling like a fool beside him. Unable to do much more than stand there, he just stared with a raised eyebrow at the man before him.

"I'll bet you never thought you'd see me again," Kirk said, echoing a statement from much earlier. (McCoy wasn't sure why either of them remembered.) "I saw you standing here and thought I'd say hello."

"Thought you never visited the same place twice," McCoy finally said, remembering something Kirk had told him once in one of their random conversations.

"Not always," he responded, waving a hand absently around his face as he turned to face the pink building. "I never took you as a tea party man, Bones."

"Present for someone," McCoy answered with just as much vagueness as Kirk had.

"Unless that someone is brain dead, I doubt they are going to want a present from here," Kirk stated as though he knew all the answers in the world. Without another word, he gestured to McCoy to follow him as he began walking down the road to an area of town McCoy hadn't been to yet.

And McCoy followed. He didn't really want to go into a pink store anyway.

* * *

"Let me buy her something," Kirk pleaded for about the tenth time.

Somewhere down the road from Mainstreet to Chinatown where Kirk had led him to, McCoy had told him the present was for Joanna. How Kirk had managed to wheedle that bit of information from him, McCoy did not know, but Kirk seemed to take it in stride and didn't ask any uncomfortable questions.

And by "not asking any uncomfortable questions," that meant he didn't ask a damn thing. McCoy was actually pretty grateful for that one.

"Why the hell would you want to buy her something?" McCoy asked, looking at a collection of jewelry boxes. They were shaped like Chinese food take-out boxes, covered in various bright colored silk with gold and silver embroidery.

He examined a purple one with silver embroidery depicting some strange symbols he couldn't decipher. Purple had been her favorite color when he had left Georgia months ago. Probably still wasn't. Too much had changed, he knew that for damn sure.

Kirk seemed to understand his dilemma and pulled the purple box from his hand and replaced it with a red one with gold embroidered dragons. Much better.

"Well, if you buy her a jewelry box, she needs something inside of it, too," Kirk explained as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

McCoy didn't understand why this man felt the need to edge his way into McCoy's life, but nothing Kirk had done so far made any sense at all. McCoy found he was learning to deal with it.

Needless to say, when Joanna opened her jewelry box, there was a gold necklace nestled at the bottom with a pendant in the shape of a Chinese symbol that meant _daughter_.

McCoy had to admit, Kirk had pretty good taste.

* * *

Chinatown wasn't exactly his favorite place to be and there was a plethora of reasons why he hadn't gone over in that direction since he had moved to San Francisco, but Kirk had a way of making even the most mundane acts seem like an adventure.

By the time they left Chinatown, they had alienated three storeowners, they had flirted with some of the hot Chinese girls in the vegetable markets ("Oh, I've seen better _cucumbers_."), and they had purchased a few low-grade Chinese porn DVDs from a shady man in a shady alleyway. Just to mention a few things that had happened, one way or another.

And by _they_, McCoy meant _Kirk_. But it had actually been pretty enjoyable anyway.

"Time to take me home, Bones," Kirk decided in a loud voice, causing several people to turn heads. Kirk never seemed to give a reason as to why things were supposed to happen, he just seemed to go with whatever his gut told him. And apparently, his gut told him to go back home.

_Probably to watch that fucking porn_, McCoy thought, raising an eyebrow to himself.

"I told you, don't call me Bones," he grumbled in vain.

Kirk knocked his two elbows together in response, causing McCoy to roll his eyes.

"And where the hell is home for you, anyway?" McCoy asked, realizing that he still didn't know much about Kirk despite having spent another afternoon with him.

"Well, not so much a home as just a place to stay. The Ritz-Carlton," Kirk answered after thinking about it for a while. Although, McCoy assumed with all that traveling, it was no wonder he couldn't keep hotels straight. "Staying there until Friday."

McCoy gave a low whistle as their tired feet smacked against the pavement beneath them.

"How's a fresh-faced bastard like you afford that?"

"I'm a gigolo," Kirk dead-panned, staring at McCoy for a long second without blinking. Then, his boyish face split in a huge grin, clearly joking. He practically bounced ahead with a few quick steps and McCoy realized his question was about to go unanswered. Again.

"Whatever," he muttered, following the gold-haired boy-man as they each headed back to their own not-so-much-a-home-as-just-a-place-to-stay.

* * *

The apartment greeted him with its usual darkness, the lights flickering as he flipped the switch. He'd have to replace those light bulbs soon.

Dumping one of the still-unpacked boxes onto the floor, winter clothes falling onto the threadbare carpet, he packed up Joanna's birthday gift. He signed the birthday card he had left on his tiny, one-person kitchen table and threw it into the box as well. He could have taken it down to the apartment's mailroom then, but he stopped.

Maybe Kirk would want to sign the card, too. He did, after all, buy that necklace for a little girl he didn't even know. It might raise a few questions as to why a strange man was in the habit of buying McCoy's daughter a joint-gift with him, but shit. Let them talk. He didn't give a damn what the ex and her fucking family and friends thought any more.

If he saw Kirk before he left again on Friday, he'd have him sign the card. Screw whatever consequences.

Before falling into the unmade bed, McCoy fished out a framed picture of Joanna. It just made sense that Kirk should at least see what she looked like if he bought a necklace for the girl.

And if he put it on his desk where he could see it plainly, well, that was only so he wouldn't forget to show Kirk.

* * *

Kirk left Thursday morning instead of Friday and McCoy can't figure out why anyone would spend that much money on a hotel room when they're not even going to use it.

It was wasteful and excessive and damn well _stupid_ to spend money like it was going out of style. He told Kirk all of this, too, over the phone.

How Kirk got his phone number, he didn't want to know. But that kid had ways that he didn't even understand and he was slowly learning not to question anything.

Probably got all buddy-buddy with Nurse Chapel on Wednesday when he stopped by the hospital to visit McCoy. McCoy should have known she'd be a sucker for blue eyes and a charming smile.

But Kirk just laughed off the admonishment and said he'd drop McCoy a line the next time he showed up in San Francisco.

"And when might that be?" McCoy questioned, hating himself for actually really wanting to know the answer. If nothing else, life was a bit less mundane when Kirk was around.

"No idea. I just sorta show up whenever I feel like it," he answered. McCoy could _hear_ the shrug over the phone. "Sounds like you'll miss me."

Yep, that's a definite _swagger_ in his tone. Cocky bastard.

"Fuck you."

The phone call ended shortly after, but McCoy was pretty sure they had ended on good terms. He really couldn't tell.

But Kirk had signed the card and it was on its way to Georgia, so the week hadn't been a total bust.

* * *

_I want to know what you think! Please, take a few moments to leave a review! Please? I have strep throat (I think) and could really appreciate the pickmeup._


	3. of Lectures and Movies

_Thank you to reading, reviewing, lurking, etc! And a special thanks to all the well wishes for my health. Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure I have an ear infection in addition to the strep so I'm not thrilled with life right now. But whatever, I digress._

_**Notes**: This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. I'm not sure what sort of "verse" it is yet, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know! Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating._

_**Disclaimer**: If I owned Star Trek, I wouldn't have to go to college to get a job because I would be independently wealthy. Also, I don't own Snow White. I just realized I have two SW references in this chapter. lol_

* * *

Just in case Kirk never decided to come back, McCoy tried to stop thinking about him as much. There was no point in getting used to someone's presence if they were just going to stop being there. The ex had taught him that one. He had gotten used to her presence and Joanna's and suddenly there was just an alimony check to fill out every month.

But Chapel's nurse uniform was an unfortunate shade of blue and the patients at the hospital all seemed to be suffering from the effects of a bar fight. Their excuses brought to mind too many stories McCoy remembered from Kirk's retellings.

_"And then, this one guy, I called him Cupcake. You can guess that he didn't like that one. He told me to get bent, basically. And I was. Bent over the table. But not in a fun way. In a bleeding way. I still totally won though. Kicked his ass back to wherever the hell he came from."_

Probably a lie, but McCoy actually smirked when the hospital cafeteria served cupcakes that one day.

This forgetting thing was harder than he had anticipated.

If Chapel noticed that he was throwing himself a little deeper into his work, she didn't say anything. She just gave him a few new medical journals to keep him occupied. If he were in a different position, he would have called her an enabler, but he was just glad no one was telling him how to run his own damn life.

* * *

He fucking hated laws and hated how they changed. He had been paying alimony for almost a year now and the damn government had the fucking gall to change the laws concerning how much he had to pay each month. It had been almost a year (eight months since he got _fucking kicked out_ of his house), shouldn't he have been grandfathered in by now?

No. The world had decided to shit on Doctor Leonard H. McCoy so he was stuck paying almost double in alimony. All he could do was work more shifts and pray that someone was deaf, blind, and mentally challenged enough to want to marry his ex so that he wouldn't have to fucking pay anymore.

He flat-out refused to leave of his tiny apartment to move into a smaller, more affordable apartment that more or less guaranteed that he would be robbed. Shot and mugged, probably. In that order. So, he worked out a deal with his landlord and now was the primary dog-walker for all the tenants in the building.

Perfect. Just so damn perfect. As if he didn't have enough problems, now his dog allergies were acting up even stronger than before. So. Damn. Perfect.

It was about two weeks into his latest enterprising career as a dog walker and he was seriously starting to think about slipping that little yippy dog some arsenic-laced treats. Or maybe he could just sit on it. It would silence the damn yips even faster, he figured.

Suddenly, his phone vibrated in his pocket, scaring the hell out of him. Nothing like having your pants shake.

Moving like an arthritic man, careful not to lose the leashes wrapped around his wrists, he pulled the phone from his pocket and saw that Kirk was calling him. Normally he wouldn't have answered, but Kirk hadn't contacted him in weeks save for a few drunken calls or texts.

Kirk was at the hospital, expecting McCoy to be there because "You live there. I'm about seventy-five percent sure that you live there because it's the only place you ever mention being." Apparently, he and "the lovely Christine" were becoming fast friends and she had already informed Kirk that McCoy spent nearly all his spare time at the hospital and she was surprised he wasn't there either.

"She gave me your address. I'm coming to meet you there. Be ready."

The phone clicked in his ear, signaling that Kirk had deemed the conversation over.

He was going to have to talk to Chapel about doctor's-residence-confidentiality. It might not actually be in the hospital's guidelines, but it was just common sense, _dammit_.

* * *

The dogs were returned to their owners in the most understandable order: the ones that pissed McCoy off the most were returned first. Starting with that yipping mongrel.

He was in his studio apartment for approximately four minutes (he wasn't straightening up for any particular reason, it was just to pass the time) when an obnoxious buzzing filled the small room.

"Open the damn door, old man!"

McCoy groaned. He could actually hear Kirk yelling from outside. Four stories below. Through a closed window. Yeah, he was going to hear about that one later from his landlord.

He buzzed for the door to open and not even a minute later, his door flung open to reveal Kirk.

"Honey, I'm home!" he cried out into the small room, flashing McCoy what he clearly thought was his best Ricky-Ricardo smile. He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. His eyes glanced about the tiny apartment, darting around like laser-blue bullets.

He gave McCoy a look.

"Doctors who pay alimony don't get the fancy apartments," McCoy muttered, uncharacteristically embarrassed about the frugality of his place. Feeling awkwardly short beside Kirk's tall form, he abruptly stood from his chair.

Kirk perpetually seemed to think everything in the world was custom-made for him and everyone else's actions were done solely for his benefit. Without any other thought as to why McCoy might have stood up, he took a few long strides to the desk chair and slumped into the seat.

McCoy could only stare. How could someone be so comfortable somewhere they had never been before? Although, now that he thought about it, that was probably part of Kirk's magical ability to travel with such practiced ease.

"She really is such a pretty girl," Kirk announced as he stared at Joanna's picture that had never quite managed to make it back to the box after McCoy had shown it to him those months ago.

_"This is Joanna. The one you bought the gift for," he said gruffly, shoving the framed photograph into Kirk's hands._

_"Pretty girl," Kirk observed, holding the photograph cautiously under McCoy's wary eye. "You're gonna have to buy a big gun for when the boys come'a'courtin'." He winked as he handed back the frame, careful not to smudge his fingers against the glass._

_"Don't remind me."_

"Hard to believe she's related to you," Kirk finished snidely with a smirk clearly evident on his face as he cut through McCoy's brief memory.

"Piss off, frat boy," he muttered darkly, slumping onto his bed and kicking at the back of the desk chair.

Kirk flashed him a quick smile as he nudged away from the offending foot that tried to kick him. Once McCoy let his foot fall listless at the edge of his bed and away from Kirk's thigh, Kirk swung around in the seat. His back rested against the edge of the desk and his legs dangled over the back of the chair.

"I would have thought you'd have more pictures of her," he asked with something akin to surprise and admonishment in his voice. There was something soft in the tone that really caught McCoy's attention for unfathomable reasons and he snapped his head up from where it had rested against the hard mattress.

"In the box."

He gestured over to the cardboard box that had surprisingly not started to deteriorate yet in the corner of the room where the make-shift closet was located. Why the hell he felt he needed to reveal that bit of information to Kirk, he had no idea. But something about Kirk actually being in his apartment was doing all sorts of fucked up things to his system. Least of all was his sense of privacy.

"Can't have that now, can we?" Kirk spoke rhetorically, still using that damned voice. The man practically pranced over to the box like a damn cat, stealthy and swiftly across the small room.

McCoy sat up from the bed and watched as Kirk carefully opened the box, his long fingers shifted and moved and rearranged all the items in the box until his hands reemerged with several frames in his grasp. Blue eyes flickered over the pictures of the smiling girl in various outfits in front of various backgrounds. Most of the pictures were of just Joanna, but a few managed to capture a shot of him holding his little girl.

"You look nice when you smile," Kirk mused quietly, his eyes softening as he stared at one particular picture of McCoy holding Joanna as she hugged his neck.

Neither man said anything for a moment as Kirk continued to look at the picture and McCoy stared at the ceiling, at the rug, at anything else. He couldn't think of a damn thing to say.

But Kirk being Kirk, he had a way out of it as usual.

He was up on his feet in two seconds flat, the quietness of the moment gone as quickly as it arrived. His hands full of photographs, he began to place them in various spots around the room. Once a frame was settled on a flat surface, he would proceed to look at it for a moment with a cocked head as though judging whether or not the appointed location would work.

But it was Kirk and he apparently always did things right on the first try, so of course nothing had to be rearranged.

"What the hell are you doing, Kirk?" McCoy asked as Kirk placed Joanna's kindergarten picture on the window sill next to the bed.

"When you have pictures of a girl, you put them around the house," Kirk answered matter-of-factly as though he had suddenly transformed into Miss Fucking Manners.

"Your girlfriend teach you that?" McCoy asked, rolling his eyes, but staring rather intently at Joanna's five-year-old smile. Had her cheeks always been so round?

"Nah, my mom did," Kirk corrected, still darting around the room like a masculine Snow White, redecorating the studio.

McCoy froze and stared up at Kirk. He felt immediately seized with an overwhelming need to leap from the bed, jab his finger into Kirk's chest, and scream "Aha! So you _admit_ to having a mother!"

But that thought soon propelled itself out of his mind as he realized how fucking insane it sounded.

Clearly the man had a mother. Everyone did. But this was the first bit of proof McCoy had that made him sure that Kirk was a human instead of a… Well, he didn't know what didn't have a mother. But it was comforting to know that Kirk at least had something in common with other people.

He watched as Kirk stared at the same photograph again, the one with him smiling at his little girl who smiled at the camera. The soft look was back in Kirk's eyes and one finger moved slowly down the edge of the frame, rounding against the sharp corner. It felt like a victory.

Knowing that Kirk had a mom, he meant.

* * *

There was a park next to the apartment complex and it was really more of a sad, pathetic lot of grass and really high weeds with the occasional tree. This was the sort of place the local teenagers went to make out with perky breasted girlfriends wearing bright colored tops. McCoy was pretty sure he could buy some less offensive drugs there from the wanna-be thugs, but alcohol and an overdose of medical journals were his poison of choice, thank you very much.

But Kirk had a penchant for examining everything that seemed a little left of center. He seemed a bit fascinated by the kitchen-sink realism that he was finally understanding McCoy's life to be. And for reasons McCoy clearly did not comprehend, this man-child, who seemed to get bored of everything as quickly as a damn infant, still hadn't gotten bored with him. So naturally, in Kirk's mind, the next step of the way was to explore.

"You know, Bones," Kirk started, glancing around the small, weeded park as he noticed the cigarette butts and a discarded hookah. "I'll bet you can get some damn good drugs here."

"No. Just no."

McCoy stared at him with crossed arms and possibly the most evil look on his face. Of course, it didn't faze Kirk in the slightest, he only laughed.

"You're such a mothering hen, dear," Kirk quipped, shoving McCoy lightly. He took a few steps ahead of McCoy, his arms folded behind his head as he looked up at the sky with squinted eyes.

McCoy had this sudden image of Kirk in the middle of a smoke-filled room, flashing lights, half-naked girls, the "glamour" of drugs. He was a doctor, dammit. He knew the aftereffects. He knew track marks don't look nearly as appealing under the harsh lights in the hospital when some fucking idiot overdoses and has to be saved.

If Kirk were into that goddamn business, McCoy was pretty sure he'd have to kill him. A roundabout way of protecting the kid, but the overwhelming urge to keep Kirk away from being another fucking idiot kid on a gurney was choking him.

"A few months ago, I would have waited til dark to get some," Kirk continued to say, not realizing that McCoy was nearly tomato-faced with sheer rage.

"Well, you better fucking stop, you goddamn bastard. It's fucking stupid and I sure as hell don't want to see your scrawny ass in the hospital hooked up to IVs on your fucking deathbed because you couldn't wake the hell up and realize that you could be doing something less destructive, goddamnit," McCoy yelled across the few feet that separated them.

One of his neighbors was walking by to the grocery or wherever the hell nosy women go in the evening.

_Probably to play goddamn bingo or Parcheesi. Well, now she has something to tell her bitty friends,_ McCoy thought in the back of his mind as he watched in growing anger at Kirk's amused expression.

"Hello, ma'am!" Kirk called out to the woman with his most charming smile plastered all over his too-pretty face. One hand swiped away the fallen strands of hair that had fallen into those eyes and he gave the woman a wink.

Judging by how quickly she walked away, McCoy figured with an internal groan that he was probably going to have to treat her for a heart attack later that night. Shit.

"I'm not doing drugs anymore, Bones," Kirk reassured, turning that charm-and-wink onto McCoy. "Don't have much of a reason anymore."

That grin again. But softer. Less teeth.

Maybe he shouldn't have trusted him, but McCoy found himself nodding and the horrible knot in his stomach dissipated by degrees as the sunlight started to fade into the horizon.

* * *

Somehow, McCoy's work schedule was shifted around so that he ended up with the next night off. Chapel seemed blissfully unaware as to why this sort of occurrence might have happened when she called him to inform him not to come in the next night. Apparently Doctor Puri was taking over. For once. Where the hell had he been lately? McCoy might have argued, but Doctor Puri really needed to start pulling his weight around in the hospital.

Needless to say, Kirk was also informed about McCoy's sudden night off. In what was too short of a time after Chapel's phone call to be considered coincidental, Kirk showed up at his door, smiling like a goddamn Buddha. Or Gandhi. Or even Mother Theresa. One of those notable, historical figures that smiled all the damn time.

But there was absolutely nothing religious in that shit-eating grin of his. If McCoy were a weaker person, he might have been disturbed by the sharp, playful glint in Kirk's eyes.

"We're staying in tonight. It's what bachelors do. I have declared it so."

He didn't even say hello. He just waltzed in and started fiddling with McCoy's DVD player.

"Thank God you actually have one. This place is so fucking bare, I thought maybe your best form of entertainment was a hand down your pants," he called over his shoulder as he inserted the movie disk.

McCoy felt some heat on his ears, _but it wasn't a blush, dammit!_

"Shut up, kid," he snapped, plopping himself onto the couch and rubbing his hands on the rough fabric of his jeans (it wasn't an anxious habit).

Kirk only beamed and showed too many teeth as his hair fell into his face, blocking those blue eyes from McCoy's view.

A flash of a flesh-colored blur and then the eyes were revealed to him once more as the hair was brushed away.

"You look like a fucking hippie. Get a goddamn haircut," he complained from his seat on the couch as Kirk fell into it.

McCoy noticed that Kirk sat only a few inches away. Maybe two, if he had to eyeball it.

"If you were a dwarf, you'd be Grumpy," Kirk joked, sprawling out on the couch. His foot nudged McCoy's leg, which McCoy yanked away from him.

"Move the hell over," he ordered, deciding to ignore the Disney reference. He wasn't Grumpy. And if he was, well, it wasn't his fault he was perpetually surrounded by idiots.

Kirk wiggled in his seat like a four-year-old in a way that McCoy briefly thought to be endearing until he shoved that thought to the back of his mind. By the time Kirk finally stopped twitching around, he was only maybe an inch or two further than his original seat.

But the couch was pretty small and there really wasn't much room anyway, so McCoy didn't "grump" anymore.

The movie blared on the screen, the volume just loud enough to hear it because _Kirk, if I get nailed from my landlord about being too loud, I'll kick your ass._ But McCoy wasn't sure at all what was going on because Kirk was apparently a fidgety kid.

Every fifteen minutes, he had to walk around the room to get a drink of water or go to the bathroom (probably because he kept drinking water) or just walk around to look at a picture of Joanna that had suddenly resurfaced on the desk.

And when he finally sat down again, it was always too close to McCoy. But there was no point to argue. Because he was just going to get up in fifteen minutes anyway. Contrary to popular belief, McCoy did have a tolerance level. He could last fifteen minutes next to someone. So if Kirk really wanted to sit with his leg flush against McCoy, that was fine.

* * *

Credits rolled along the screen and the two men stared blankly, both too lazy to actually get off their asses and stop the movie.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," Kirk announced. Somehow, he had stopped moving around every fifteen minutes and had finally come to rest just next to McCoy, his hair tickling McCoy's arm outstretched on the back of the couch.

"That was fast," McCoy said with a touch of surprise inflecting his tone. He looked down at the slumped man next to him.

"I've actually got somewhere to be," Kirk shrugged, his shoulders digging into the threadbare fabric of the old couch.

"Where?" McCoy asked curiously.

"China."

Well. He hadn't been expecting that one.

"What's in China?" he questioned, clearly unable to keep the look of shock off of his face. A job? A family member? Some girl that Kirk had impregnated? He had never actually mentioned any sexual escapades from China, but McCoy figured that the countries were all starting to blend together in his mind.

"Spock," Kirk shrugged as though that answered everything.

"What's a spock?"

Kirk actually laughed at that one, a full belly laugh that split his face into a giant smile.

His teeth were very white, McCoy observed offhandedly.

"He's a person," Kirk explained once the laughter had subsided a bit. "Met him through a family friend. Pike."

He added the name at the last moment, a definite pause before the name was dropped. He looked up at McCoy as though waiting for recognition or a reaction, but McCoy had nothing to offer him.

"Anyway," he continued once he realized McCoy wasn't going to say anything, "I have to visit him. Long story. Something to do with his mom."

It sounded like one of those "your mom" jokes that the damn teenagers yapped about when one of their moronic friends ended up in the hospital for whatever "ingenious" plan they had concocted.

McCoy could only roll his eyes, but he listened to himself ask Kirk about this Spock character.

"What's he like?"

Did Kirk visit him like he visited McCoy? Did they eat hamburgers together? Did he buy a birthday gift for some random little girl he didn't know but meant a hell of a lot to Spock?

…he had to stop the internal questions now.

"He's a walking contradiction," Kirk said after a moment of silence.

McCoy raised a single eyebrow, waiting for some clarification. Behind them, the movie had restarted and Kirk moved a lazy hand to press the mute button on the remote. The resounding silence was a bit denser than McCoy had realized. It was then that he noticed neither had moved at all from their positions on the couch.

Shouldn't his arm have fallen asleep by now?

Kirk explained that Spock was half-Chinese on his father's side and half-French on his mother's side. The Chinese didn't like him because he was his father's second born, which wasn't allowed. The French didn't like him because, well, he wasn't fully French.

Chinese tradition with French manners. McCoy could only imagine.

"You wouldn't like him," Kirk said thoughtfully after his description. His head was cocked at an odd angle to stare at McCoy from his place on the couch. The blonde hair brushed softly against McCoy's arm and it must have tickled because goosebumps were erupting over his skin. He pulled his arm away too quickly, catching Kirk's attention.

Kirk noticed. He eyed the goosebumps. He grinned.

"Don't miss me _too_ much."

* * *

_I'd love it if you reviewed. Hint._


	4. of Laundromats and Coffee

_Thank you everyone who has been reading and enjoying this story so far. Seriously, you all make my day and I hope everything is going great for you guys._

_**Notes**: This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. I'm not sure what sort of "verse" it is yet, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know! Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating._

_**Disclaimer**: No ownership. If I owned Star Trek, I could buy a less crappy cell phone that doesn't turn off all the time. *angeranger*_

* * *

How much money Kirk had, McCoy was seriously starting to wonder. The whole time he was in China, he sent picture text messages and called drunk more than just a few times.

But honestly, none of that surprised McCoy anymore. The random picture texts of vegetables that cost sixty-nine cents per pound ("Really fucking mature, Kirk.") and the drunken phone calls were becoming second nature to McCoy. In fact, he started to feel worried when a few days passed without any inebriated conversation with Kirk.

Regardless, overseas calls and texts were fucking expensive as hell. Kirk had already taken the liberty to call McCoy's damn phone company. McCoy had no idea what Kirk had managed to do, but apparently he used a sexy telephone voice (Kirk's words, _not_ his) to switch over his phone plan to Kirk's.

_"If I text you, I expect a response. No, I _demand_ a response! I know it's expensive and you have a pretty little daughter to take care of. Since I'm the self-centered bastard that you always say I am, I'm insisting that you text me back or answer the phone when I call. So I'm paying so you have no excuse. So ha!"_

So he answered the phone. He texted back.

Because, well, it wasn't his money so why not?

* * *

Kirk had been gone for a few weeks (three weeks and four days, but McCoy was only counting because he was waiting for the phone bill to make sure that Kirk had actually managed to change his service) and there was still no definite answer as to when he'd be back in San Francisco.

He had no reason to call, but his hand still managed to press in the appropriate numbers until the ringing was loud in his ear.

_Lucky you. You got a hold of James T. Kirk's number. If you're hot, leave a message!_

Damn answering machine. He didn't leave a message.

He hung up the phone, rolling his eyes over the damn kid's arrogance.

"Fucking god-complex," he muttered to himself. He couldn't help the amused grin that was making its way onto his face. He settled himself back at his desk at work when his phone started vibrating.

It was Kirk. He apparently screened his calls.

"Hello?" he gruffed into the phone.

"Hey, Bones!" Kirk's voice greeted cheerfully. He sounded so very far away. "I think this is the first time you've ever called me before."

It was. But McCoy didn't think it mattered.

"When are you coming back?" he asked, leaning back in his seat, tapping his fingers lightly against the desktop in front of him.

"You miss me?" Kirk teased across the ocean. "You could have just texted me."

"Texting is for infants. You need to learn some damn social skills," McCoy barked into the phone feeling significantly flushed for reasons he couldn't (wouldn't) explain to himself.

"Like hell I'm gonna take social advice from you. I actually like getting laid, thanks," Kirk answered. He allowed the subtle burn to hit McCoy who opened his mouth to make a few choice remarks before Kirk started speaking again. "Anyway, not sure when I'm coming back. I have a few stops along the way before I get back to San Francisco." His tone changed from cavalier to curious. "Why? You need me to come back for something?"

"No," McCoy conceded. His fingers slowed their tapping and fell to rest in his lap. A silence settled between them and though it was probably fine with Kirk (that damn kid never seemed uncomfortable), he was growing increasingly unsettled.

Clearing his throat loudly, he changed the subject. "Your damn answering message is arrogant as hell."

Kirk laughed on the other end and McCoy could perfectly picture him swiping the hair from his face.

"It's confidence, Bones. You could use some," he taunted, safe at his distance thousands of miles away. "I mean, if you were really confident, you would have left a message." His voice turned sly. "I said to leave a message if you're hot."

McCoy chose not to respond to that.

"What if your mother called or something?" he prodded, shifting in his seat. He scrolled down whatever documents that were on his computer, but he couldn't focus on any of the medical jargon listed.

"If my mother calls, I've got other bigger things to occupy my mind with," Kirk answered in an uncharacteristically distant voice.

It took McCoy a while to respond because there was something hidden in the younger man's voice that made him sound much too old for twenty-three.

He just wrote it off as being yet another elephant in the room. Maybe one day they would address the herd that seemed to fill the space around them.

McCoy couldn't really remember who hung up the phone first, but he still did not know when Kirk was coming back.

* * *

The day he got a thank you card from Joanna was the day he realized just how much he was missing out on.

Apparently Joanna in all her second-grade wisdom (When did she enter the second grade? Was it really September already? He had left Georgia a year ago. A year ago? Had it really been that long?) decided to practice her cursive.

_Dear Dad,_

_Thank you for the jewlry box and the necklace and the card. I really liked them. They were pretty. Thank Mr. Jim to._

_Yours Sincerly,_

_Joanna_

Because if that wasn't a stiff, loveless letter, he didn't know what was. _Yours Sincerely?_ She had to have gotten that from her damn mother. And when did she stop calling him _Daddy_? He thought the worst part might me that he didn't even know she knew cursive. She had trouble writing her r's. Every one of them was messed up.

He wasn't there to help her.

Moving robotically, instinctually, he reached for the cell phone that had he had thrown onto the small desk near the bed.

_Lucky you. You got a hold of James T. Kirk's number. If you're hot, leave a message!_

McCoy didn't leave a message. Just listened for the beep and let the silence wash over him for a few seconds before hanging up, snapping his phone shut harder than necessary.

Talking to Kirk wasn't going to solve anything. He just… God, he was turning into a fucking woman.

He pondered calling the hospital to see if they needed him for work. Lord knew there was a fucking alimony check due in a week and rent on top of that. The weight of the world bore down on him with a damn price tag.

But he couldn't find the strength to call the hospital. Because knowing his luck, Chapel would be working and she would be the one to answer the phone. He hated her pitying voice and she had been using it increasingly often whenever he mentioned that Kirk had left again.

He didn't want to hear a woman's voice. Hell, he didn't want to hear anyone's voice. Woman, man, anyone.

Except Joanna's. Or Kirk's.

They shouldn't have been related at all in his mind, but somehow they were.

He hadn't had anything to drink since before Kirk left for China but fuck it all to hell and blazes. And so the night was spent with a bottle of whiskey and a medical journal about co-dependency.

* * *

McCoy was at the Laundromat when his pants started vibrating. It was a strange look from the other customers when he leapt from the bench in surprise and yelled out a curse. He really needed to remember to change it from vibrate when he was no longer working a shift at the hospital.

The text was from Kirk and he wasn't at all surprised. The only other person who ever really contacted him was Chapel or the hospital personnel, and they only called. Never texted. Only Kirk did.

_Turn around._

He couldn't stop the rakish grin from appearing on his face when he turned around to see Kirk standing in the doorway like he owned the place. It was like a stupid scene in one of those damn movies that the ex used to make him watch, but it was too good to see him for McCoy to focus on anything else. (But he really didn't care because this was the first day since he got that damn thank you note when it didn't seem like the world was shitting on him.)

The smile must have caught Kirk off-guard because he raised his eyebrows in slight surprise before taking a few strides over to McCoy. Then, doing something he had never done before, he hugged McCoy briefly in greeting. It was just a slight pressure of his arms around McCoy's rib cage and McCoy found himself patting Kirk's back with just enough pressure to make it manly, but without bruising him.

The other Laundromat patrons seemed undisturbed by the display. But then again, it _was_ San Francisco. Funnily enough, McCoy didn't care what they thought, even though they were definitely wrong with their assumptions.

"I thought you had other places to go before you came back here," McCoy said, pulling away from Kirk. The grin settled a little less heavily on his face and they looked at each other with a practiced ease.

"They weren't as exciting as I thought they'd be," Kirk answered vaguely, his eyes practically winking in the fluorescent lights of the building.

"And you think San Francisco is more exciting?" McCoy joked as the machine sounded behind him, indicating that his load had finished drying.

Kirk merely shrugged amiably, crossing his arms and leaning against the machines next to McCoy's crouched form as McCoy started tossing his clothes into his canvas bag.

"I need coffee," Kirk declared loudly after watching McCoy finish emptying the dryer.

"This is new," McCoy responded, rolling his eyes at Kirk's childish behavior. He tossed in the last t-shirt (Oh, they were going to wrinkle so badly. The ex would have yelled at him.)

"Spock's new assistant is a totally head bitch in charge," he started explaining. He leaned away from the machines to speak more animatedly. His arms waved about his head in a helter skelter fashion, something McCoy had noticed was something he did when he was genuinely amused. "She's just feisty and wonderful and won't bang me, which makes me like her even more." He gave a dramatic sigh and leaned back against the machines, his slumped posture catching the eye of a few women within the vicinity. He winked at them before turning his own feral grin onto McCoy. "I enjoy a challenge."

"And this has _what_ to do with coffee?" McCoy questioned, ignoring the insinuating comments.

"She got me hooked!" he exclaimed, once again bounding from the stacked machines. His exuberance was rubbing off on McCoy who sat back on the bench between the rows of washers and dryers. That grin was somewhat infectious.

"We had a bit," he half-shrugged with a curved smirk on his face. "When I'd visit Spock at his work, she'd be there. She was hot, so we talked."

His voice just dripped with the unspoken words: _Because it's me and I talk to anything with a decent ass._

"And it became our thing in the mornings," he continued. If McCoy didn't know any better, he'd have thought that lecherous grin turned into something almost resembling _sweet_. "I would steal her coffee and she would chide me while I tried to guess her name and she would turn me down."

"You didn't know her name?" McCoy remarked with one raised eyebrow. Kirk was practically bouncing on his heels as he waited for McCoy to stand up so they could exit the Laundromat.

"Only her last name. She won't tell me her first name!" he gestured greatly as their voices expanded into the open air of San Francisco.

"I like her already," McCoy smirked, clapping a hand on the younger man's shoulder as he hoisted the laundry bag higher on his arm.

Kirk mock-glared at him before his stern expression washed away to something much more gleeful and familiar. The laughter came from deep in his throat and was more subdued than his usual boisterous noise. As infectious as his grin, McCoy joined him as they strode down the sidewalk.

"You're in a good mood today," Kirk observed, squinting at McCoy under the bright sunlight.

"That a crime?" McCoy retorted, immediately falling onto his old suspicious standby.

Kirk raised his hands in a defensive stance. "No, I'm just worried about you." His innocent expression broke away into a teasing glance.

"Har har, Kirk," McCoy said with deep sarcasm, rolling his eyes.

_This kid's gonna leave me dizzy the amount of times he makes me do that_, McCoy thought to himself.

"C'mon," Kirk piped, picking up the pace of his steps. His long legs spread and quickened his walk and McCoy might had observed a spring in his step if he looked closely enough. "Let's drop your clothes off and get some coffee."

McCoy ranted a bit about caffeine addiction and both the short- and long-term effects it could have, but Kirk only swung an arm around his shoulder so they walked at the same quick pace.

"That's more like it, you cantankerous bastard."

* * *

The café was not too far from his apartment as Kirk apparently needed his fix as quickly as possible. McCoy was completely satisfied to get his coffee (hot, black, nothing added) and walk around, but Kirk insisted they sit down.

They couldn't just sit down inside the café because "Bones, it's nice out. This is storybook weather and I want to soak in the San Francisco September air." The real reason was because the seats outside the café allowed Kirk to be openly observed by passersby. The man was good-looking and he knew it. He was a slut for attention.

"So, you never did tell me what you do for a living," McCoy commented, breaking the silence that had fallen between the two of them as they drank their coffees in peace.

"Guess," Kirk answered with a cocky grin as he settled more comfortably into his seat. He really did have a talent for making any chair he sat in look like a throne.

"Dammit, Jim, it's all a game to you, isn't it?" McCoy said with his usual impatience towards Kirk's arrogance.

"Aw, c'mon, Bones! It'll be fun," Kirk pleaded, leaning forward in his seat. The table was impossibly small for anything more than place two coffee cups on it. Kirk barely had to move to be almost directly in front of McCoy. He positively beamed at McCoy, looking like a kid on Christmas. "What do you think I do for a living?"

McCoy thought over all the little tidbits Kirk had let slip in random conversations that would help him narrow down his guesses. Kirk traveled a lot, went to so many different countries and had a crazy (usually sex-filled) story for each one.

He had an indeterminate amount of money that he never seemed to work for, so maybe he was just a trust-fund kid. He was a fucking ball of energy, that was for sure, but he wasn't snobby, so McCoy removed that from his internal list.

Just from his conversations and the way he spoke, McCoy knew he was intelligent. Maybe as smart as him even, dropping random facts and knowledge of the most random objects.

"A model?" he questioned, the words slipping out of his mouth without his control. His eyes widened a little, shocked that he had actually said that despite having thought it for a good long time by now.

Kirk was grinning at him with that damn cocky grin and McCoy knew he was never going to hear the end of this.

Raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow deliberately slow, Kirk leaned in just a bit more closely over the table they were sharing. His breath danced briefly off McCoy's cheeks, warming him.

"Not that I don't appreciate the comment, but just because I am astonishingly, naturally, undeniably the most damn sexy person to ever live on Earth, it doesn't mean I'm a model," he denied. He spoke so honestly that McCoy wondered if he knew he was being cocky or if he just genuinely believed that.

"Being over-the-moon attractive doesn't immediately conclude that you're a model," he explained, taking a sip of his frappe chino. His eyes burned into McCoy's as he stared over the rim of his cup, looking him up and down appreciatively.

McCoy didn't blush, dammit. He just didn't. Or ever feel awkward. It wasn't not him.

But he changed the subject quickly, feeling exposed under Jim's intense gaze.

"Can't believe you drink those frappe chinys, or whatever the hell they're called. It's a girl coffee."

Kirk just shrugged with that shit-eating grin still plastered over his face. He didn't respond, just continued to stare at McCoy and finish his drink.

* * *

_I absolutely love the coffee scene. It was actually the first part that I wrote for the whole story (I never write scenes in order. lol) and is probably my favorite part so far._

_Sorry the chapter was pretty short, but things really start to pick up in the next chapter! __Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this! Please review!_


	5. of Carols and Kisses

_For all my wonderful readers, THANK YOU. You all mean so much to me. Thank you!_

_Unfortunately, I have some bad news. This weekend was really busy (In a good way. I got a lot of work done and went to the art museum for my design class. Fun!) and so I wasn't able to write as much as I would have liked. So, the next chapter is not ready to be posted yet. What does that mean, you ask? It means that I might not be updating for a few more days longer than usual. I hope you all don't mind!_

_**Notes**: This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. I'm not sure what sort of "verse" it is yet, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know! Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating._

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Trek. Or the American Girl Company (I love the American Girl Dolls/Books. I learned more history and female empowerment from those books than nearly anything else.). I also do not own any Christmas songs included in this chapter. (Lots of disclaimers!)_

* * *

Thanksgiving had come and gone and Kirk wasn't there for the holiday. He never said he'd be there, never said he'd share a turkey burger with McCoy, but McCoy had begun to expect and maybe even hope for Kirk's presence.

But it was the fourth Thursday of the month and McCoy ate alone in his apartment. He had purchased a turkey at the local market on a whim, in case Kirk showed up out of nowhere and expected a meal. There was even a can of cranberries because it had been on sale and seeing the label immediately sent McCoy back to memories of when his mother used to let him pour it out. He had always been so amused that it came out in such a cylindrical shape.

Kirk never showed up and the canned cranberries just weren't as good as McCoy remembered them to be. He prepared the turkey and it tasted a little overdone and dry, no matter how much juice he tried to inject it with.

The cell phone was left on the desk just next to him, in case Kirk got his days confused and called too late at night to tell McCoy that he would be there the next day for Thanksgiving. And McCoy would tell him he was a damn idiot (which Kirk would disprove with a bountiful amount of knowledge about the origins of Thanksgiving that little kids in elementary school never get to learn) and invite him over for a Friday celebration with leftover turkey sandwiches.

No phone calls. No texts. No spontaneous knocks on the door with a blonde-haired daredevil with a toothy smile.

It was turkey and medical journals instead of alcohol and medical journals, but the feeling was the same. There was just no slow burn afterwards.

* * *

Chapel and her nurses decided the hospital needed a bit of holiday cheer.

"It's bad enough having to work here around the holidays. It's even worse to be a hospital patient or visiting a loved one around the holidays."

Anyone in the hospital would have expected to be bundled in scarves and thick coats, walking outside only to be met with snow and that winter wonderland everyone seemed to be so damn fond of. But San Francisco only went down to the high forties in December so really, no one needed much more than a jacket at most.

Still, Chapel could not be dissuaded from her holiday cheer and even went so far as to wear Christmas pins on her red-and-green scrubs.

There were baubles and tinsel and politically correct "Happy Holidays!" signs hanging from strings on the ceiling. In the nurses' station, softly played carols could be heard and it was only because Chapel had a pretty soprano voice that McCoy didn't yell at her for singing quietly under her breath whenever _Silent Night_ floated out from the radio.

December twentieth rolled around pretty quickly in a rushed blur of endless days and snowman cookies. There had been no phone call from Kirk about when he'd be back from wherever the hell he was these days. There had, however, been a message left on his machine from the ex telling him not to bother visiting Joanna for Christmas because she was too busy with family.

At that point, there wasn't much to do but place his request in to work December twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth. Considering how things were looking, he couldn't even consider them holidays. Just more days in the year. Just because they were holidays filled with fucking cheer and damn good tidings didn't mean idiots didn't get hurt or sick.

So he took over Chapel's previously scheduled shift and watched her green eyes sparkle with excitement ("Oh, thank you, Doctor! Mom's coming to visit from New Orleans and I just wanted to spend the whole holiday with her now that Dad's gone.") when she saw her replacement.

Christmas Eve came too soon and Chapel was packing up from the end of her morning shift. That gleam in her eyes was a bit too familiar and he wasn't able to dart around the desk quickly enough to avoid her tight hug.

"Dammit, Chapel," he hissed through his teeth as her slim arms tightened around his waist.

"Oh, just let me enjoy this," she chided in her motherly tone. She pulled away and tucked the loose strands of shining white-blonde hair away from her pale face. "Remove the scowl and actually try to enjoy the holiday."

He brushed her aside, grunting unintelligibly in response. Avoiding her eyes, he gathered up the manila folders and looked down at them, shifting through the papers to see what cases he had to deal with before the afternoon was over.

"Is Jim coming to visit?" she asked innocently, still standing nearby despite his obvious ignorance towards her.

"Dammit, Chapel!" he snapped again with more of a bite to his voice. "I'm fucking sick and tired of you trying to butt into my personal life. Leave Kirk out of this."

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes narrowing in his direction before her mouth softened into a more sympathetic gaze. He willed the gods above them that she wouldn't say she felt sorry for him or anything else like that Hallmark crap.

Instead, she turned away and opened the drawer of her station to pull out a thin envelope.

"Tickets to the American Girl Place in Atlanta. I thought you might want to take Joanna. The tickets are good for a year, so there's no time limit to convince that ex of yours that you need to see your daughter."

The envelope was slipped into his hand and with a final wave and a "Merry Christmas," she walked away. He didn't feel guilty for the taken aback look on her face after he yelled at her until she was already gone.

McCoy stared at the envelope for a hard moment before he slipped it into the inside pocket of his medical jacket.

He had a gift for her, too. A book on Edgar Degas to feed her obsession with ballet and fine art. He'd give it to her when she came back to work in a few days. It was in his closet in the apartment next to the gift he had gotten for Kirk if he ever showed up.

* * *

He'd thought maybe he'd run into some luck when he wandered into the bookstore and found the full set of Samantha the American Girl books (according to the ex, Joanna had gotten the matching doll for her birthday). But good luck seemed to repel against him like water on oil.

The cardboard box sat like an atomic bomb on the floor outside his apartment door. How long he stood there staring at it, he wasn't sure. Like an atomic bomb, it could go off at any second and he sure as hell did not want to be the catalyst to the explosion. It wasn't until Mrs. Whatsername next door walked down the hallway and gave him a peculiar look that McCoy kicked the box back into his studio apartment.

Taped on the top of the box over the send to address was a blue slip.

_PACKAGE RETURNED TO SENDER._

_ADDRESS NO LONGER VALID._

He doubled checked the address he sent it to just to make sure he hadn't miswritten or wrote something too sloppily to be deciphered. But no, that wasn't the case. The address was the same one he had known since kindergarten when he was required to know his address and phone number as part of his homework. The handwriting was definitely a man's handwriting, but it was clearly scripted.

_Miss Joanna McCoy_

_124 Stony Lane_

_Daisydale, GA 02820_

Not a damn thing wrong.

So he called the ex and that was just a fucking pleasant conversation. It was only minutes long because she screamed at him, hung up the phone, and then disconnected the line so he couldn't even call the bitch back to yell at her.

Yell. Rant. Shout. Bellow.

If he were a weaker man, he'd beg.

He'd beg for her to buy the house back. The house he had grown up in, gotten married in the backyard, brought Joanna home to from the maternity wing. He'd put more elbow grease into repairs and renovations starting from the age of five when he wanted to help his father paint the kitchen. There wasn't a creak on the stairs that he didn't know, not a crack on the doors that he didn't know the story behind.

Brimmed full of memories, and she had sold it. Sold the farmhouse (_his_ farmhouse until she stole it from him in the divorce) to move in with Clay Treadway. Sold it and didn't even think to fucking tell him about it.

_"Clay Treadway?! From high school?!"_

_"Well, I've been seeing him for years while you were too busy with your damn hospital! He never left me for a late-night shift! He never forgot my birthday because of a surgery!"_

_"Fuck you, Jocelyn!"_

_"Go to hell, Leonard!"_

There was no alcohol this time because he knew if he put the bottle to his lips, he wouldn't be able to stop. It might have been a perfect time for liver-failure related death, but he wouldn't give goddamnfuckingJocelyn the satisfaction.

McCoy just pulled the shades down low to make the room as dark as possible as he tried to sleep through the remainder of December. The shapeless shadows stretched along the floor as he slumped onto the bed, rustling around in the comforter. The buzz in his ears was mostly imaginary as the silence pressed in around him. He shut his eyes to avoid looking at the damn atomic bomb box sitting like a fucking menace on the thin carpet.

_"Go to hell, Leonard!"_

He was already in hell. Merry Christmas.

* * *

Two days later and the room hadn't changed at all except for the rising and falling degrees of sunlight as the hours move by slowly. Hygiene was optional in solitude and the roughness on his face was a bit too long to be considered just stubble. In the spare moments when he wasn't sleeping or watching old Christmas movies on the television, he laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

In his mind, he pictured Joanna in a pretty green Christmas dress, opening her gifts and dancing around her cousins as they all gathered around to take family photos. She was smiling and laughing and spinning and was more beautiful than he could ever imagine a little girl could be.

But the image was hazy in the background because he wasn't sure where the tree would be in the new house or where the stockings would hang because he didn't know if there would be a fireplace in the Treadway home.

His mind filled in the blanks when it could, coloring the walls of the family room where the tree always stood, organizing the layout of the first floor. All the details were supplied until he realized he wasn't imagining Joanna's new life. He was replaying the memories of Christmases from years past when he had been the one holding the camcorder while she opened her gifts.

He imagined her turning, as she always did, to face the camera and tell him "Merry Christmas, Daddy! I love you!" just before she would blow him a sloppy kiss.

_A Christmas Carol_ played in the background and he felt like a Scrooge who didn't want the Ghost of Christmas Past to haunt him any longer. He tried to roll over and will away the images as he fell into blissful unconsciousness when he heard a knock on the door.

McCoy laid perfectly still in the chances that whoever it was would just go away and leave him the hell alone because he didn't feel like fucking dealing with people. But the person didn't go away and he could see feet under the door breaking up the sliver of light from the hallway.

"Bones! You're not at the hospital. I know you're in there."

If it had been anyone else, McCoy wouldn't have gotten out of bed to open the door.

* * *

The taxi cab drove away because Kirk didn't feel like walking to the bar and neither of them had cars. (Kirk said he used to have a motorcycle, but that didn't travel well. And it was San Francisco so no one who lived and worked there had a car, especially doctors with alimony to pay.) Kirk had paid, completely ignoring McCoy's snapping comments that they could split the money. With an airy wave of his hand, Kirk just promised to let McCoy pay on the way back.

Fair enough.

"Remind me why we're here again?" McCoy muttered as they entered the little bar. It was off the side of the road in a part of town that he didn't usually frequent. This was reserved for more tourists, younger people who all seemed to look good in fashionably ripped clothing.

"Because there was a stink in your room and if you stayed there for much longer, I think the stink was going to consume you," Kirk said in an annoying know-it-all tone, flashing an ID at the bouncer before they entered.

"Kirk, I don't—"

McCoy paused and looked down at the ID still dangling in Kirk's hand before he placed it back in his wallet.

"Is that a fake ID?" he gaped, staring at the same card.

Kirk beamed gleefully with all the excitement of a kid with ADHD. He handed the card to McCoy as they maneuvered their way to a small table for two off to the side. They sat down and McCoy was barely aware of the smoky lights and the jazz-Christmas music playing in the background.

"You're over twenty-one. Why the fuck do you need a fake ID?" he hissed between his teeth as his eyebrows made a dash for his hairline.

"I like to think of everything as a challenge," Kirk answered with that goddamned smirk on his clean-shaven face. He flickered his blue eyes across the room and with a backwards sweep of his hair, a waitress immediately found her way over to their table.

They ordered some drinks and sat there, listening to the saxophone blare out the melody to _Carol of the Bells_.

"Christmas is here, bringing good cheer to young and old, meek and the bold…" Kirk trailed off, his voice low as he sang softly in time to the music.

When he caught McCoy staring at him, he stopped altogether. If McCoy didn't know better, he'd think Kirk looked a bit abashed from his singing. He grinned with just a touch of sheepishness and then ran his fingers through his hair, averting his eyes briefly before meeting McCoy's gaze again.

"How'd you even hear about this place?" McCoy said abruptly. Kirk's mannerisms, his stare, his presence was unnerving to McCoy. Something was too comfortable between them. "Doubt it was a Zagat."

Kirk gave one of his open mouthed laughs that seemed to suit _Carol of the Bells_ quite nicely. The band and his laughter seemed to blend together imperceptibly. A few women and even a man or two turned to glance at the impossible man, but McCoy ignored everyone but Kirk.

"Uhura told me," he finally answered. The laughter had ended, but the smile could still been seen on his face and heard in his voice. "She's been here a few times on vacation and business. She told me about it."

The waitress came with their drinks and Kirk looked a bit impressed when McCoy downed his beer in a matter of seconds.

"Another round," Kirk ordered, "keep them coming." He winked at the waitress and she blushed a bit while smiling like an adolescent girl who just got asked to the dance.

There was a bowl of peanuts in the center of the table that Kirk picked at a few times, but McCoy ignored them. Eating food would only delay the inevitable weightless feeling of drunkenness. And tonight, he wanted nothing more than to forget the world and drink until he couldn't feel anything anymore.

He drummed his fingers on the table and glanced around the room as he waited for the waitress to come back with more glasses. The atmosphere was probably a bit calmer than it normally would be considering it was still just a few days after Christmas and everyone still had their damn holiday cheer. It seemed to shine off of people like a physical adornment.

The lights were low and atmospheric with Christmas lights strewn around the ornamental bottles above the bar. The different colored lights ricocheted off the glass of the bottles, making the liquid inside glow in shades of red, green, pink, and blue.

The jazz band played in the corner to a small audience gathered around them. The low notes seemed float through the air, almost tangible with their holiday sound. There was a heavy-set woman who seemed to be all curves swaddled in floating red fabric standing off to the side of the band and McCoy assumed she would be singing every now and then.

His assumption proved correct when _Carol of the Bells_ finally ended and she walked up to the microphone. There was a slight pause of music while the band situated themselves, and in the relative silence, McCoy could hear the other bar-goers around him in their various conversations. It seemed gaudy and unnecessary to speak because Kirk and he were silent at their tiny table and that seemed to suit him just fine.

_I'm dreaming of a white Christmas. Just like the ones I used to know._

The woman began crooning into the microphone with her deep, rich voice floating out to the crowd. The pair of men listened for a moment and McCoy turned his head to face Kirk as he watched the woman with an easy smile on his face.

The buzz of the alcohol was beginning to set in because he was starting to think that Kirk looked pretty damn good in those low lights.

Kirk caught his eye and waggled his eyebrows. He began to talk about how the singer reminded him of a girl he had been with in college. ("She had that same sort of smoky voice.") McCoy could only roll his eyes and listen with half-interest.

The waitress returned to replace his empty glass with a new, full glass. The liquid appeared a deep amber color that seemed to fit the mood of the bar very nicely.

"You know what I want for Christmas?" Kirk asked out of the blue as the waitress walked away. He kept his eyes trained on her ass as she sashayed away.

"Apparently new STDs," McCoy answered, taking a swig of his drink. Around them, the song changed.

"You're a doctor. I've got you to cure me," Kirk answered gaily as he brushed his hair out of his forehead. McCoy rolled his eyes and was about to hand back a quick remark about how Kirk shouldn't depend on him, dammit, when Kirk began speaking again. "Anyway, you know what I want for Christmas?"

McCoy would have given another sarcastic answer, but Kirk's eyes appeared even bluer than usual after a glass and a half of really fucking amazing beer. Those eyes seemed rounder than usual, more earnest than usual. He seemed to genuinely want McCoy to ask, to know what he wanted.

"I don't know, Kirk," he finally responded. He took another deep drink of his beverage and was saddened when he could see the clear bottom of the glass. "What do you want for Christmas?"

"I want you to call me Jim."

Blue. Round. Earnest. Genuine.

"Alright," McCoy conceded. "Jim."

He tested the word on his tongue and decided he liked that more than the feel of the burning liquid in his mouth.

_A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn._

* * *

The waitress and Kirk (Jim) were starting to stare at him in shock and worry, respectively. But his skin was too warm and his face too rough against his hands for him to care about much else. His peripheral vision was shot to hell, too fuzzy to make out anything other than basic colors. Jim was the only thing in the room he could visually focus on and even then, the image seemed to be spinning.

He hadn't stood up since they had gotten there, but he knew with practiced experience that the floor was probably dancing under his feet and standing from his seat would only end up with him falling on the floor and drooling on the tile.

"Unsanitary," he mumbled (slurred), thinking about drool and dirty floors that he didn't know who had walked on it. Who? Whom? English classes had been a long time ago.

"It's _who_," Kirk (_Jim_, he needed to started remembering _Jim_.) answered with raised eyebrows.

"Oh," McCoy commented. He hadn't realized he had spoken that last part aloud.

Jim started to pull the (tenth? Eleventh?) glass away from McCoy, but he held it closer to his body. He started swirling the liquid around in the glass and from a far way away, he heard the beginning strains of _Winter Wonderland_ from the instruments. He hated that song.

He tossed the drink into the back of his mouth and relished that even if he couldn't physically feel anything else, he could feel that burn. Jim looked as though he was about to force the drink away from McCoy, but McCoy had to stop him. He couldn't give up the drink, dammit. He did the only thing he could think of and opened his mouth.

"Why'd you come back?"

Kirk (JIM) seemed a bit taken aback by the harsh and pained tone of McCoy's voice. McCoy was pretty sure _he_ was taken aback by how he felt and how his voice sounded, but he wasn't entirely sure. Maybe.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here for Christmas," Jim answered quietly, moving his eyes to a long ago stain on the table. His fingers traced the outline of it in rapid succession. "I thought you'd be with your daughter."

McCoy wanted to tell him to stop sounding so guilty because, hell, it wasn't his fault. But somehow, the words changed in his throat and when he started speaking, it was a hell of a lot different than what he had expected.

"Fucking Jocelyn. It's her fault. I would have been there with Joanna," McCoy swore loudly, catching the attention of several customers at the bar. Dimly, he was aware that he was probably a terrifying sight with his several-day-old beard and drunken, blood-shot eyes.

"But fucking Jocelyn moved," he pressed on in a quieter voice. It wasn't quieter to be more polite, but because he couldn't control his anger except in smaller doses. "Out of my house. My goddamn house."

The waitress appeared as though out of nowhere beside them and started taking the empty glasses away. McCoy had seen this sight so many times, it was like a broken record. He waited for Jim to flirt with her, to give her a flash of those goddamn_piercing_fucking blue eyes. But Jim only waved her away, a silent signal to not bring back any more drinks.

"I grew up there," he slurred, not caring anymore that Jim wouldn't let him drink anything else. All he could see in his mind was that old farmhouse. Two stories high. Narrow stairs. A barn in the back, he had painted it a fresh coat of red just a few years ago. "I got married there. Joanna was going to grow up there. My father grew up there, married there, died there."

Jim disappeared from before him and all he could see were dancing images of Joanna at various stages of her life, Jocelyn smiling as she walked down the alter. His father. His father as he lay dying on the old, creaking bed. The sound of his father's voice as he asked McCoy to just pull the damn plug already roared over the jazz singer in the distant background.

"My grandfather lived there. My great-grandfather fucking built that house. It was my house. She fucking sold it. Fucking Jocelyn fucking sold it," he continued with bitter acid practically tangible in the air in front of him.

His chest was starting to hurt underneath the numbness and his eyes blurred even more as the image of the house washed away from his mind. But Jim was still sitting there. Still watching. Still listening. And the jazz singer was still singing. And the lights were still dim.

So McCoy kept talking because there was a constant. He could see it. It was Jim.

"Moved in with goddamn motherfucking asshole Treadway." He could barely even remember what Treadway looked like. "That damn son of a bitch has my daughter." He missed Joanna. "I don't give a damn who the hell Jocelyn decides she wants to fuck, but Joanna is my daughter. I don't even know where Treadway fucking lives."

He really missed Joanna.

Jim sat across from him, his hands moving back and forth over the table, unsure of where to land. On McCoy's crumbled hand on the table? On McCoy's shoulder? He settled on inches away from McCoy's hand, resting on the wooden surface.

"This is the first Christmas without Joanna. Without fucking Jocelyn," he babbled on. He briefly wondered if Jim could even understand him with all the slurring and his accent really was more pronounced when he was drunk. But he needed to tell Jim. Because Jim was still sitting there and that counted for something. "And I hate her. I hate her so much, but I would be with her right now just to see Joanna."

Joanna with her dark hair and her smiling face. Those smiles and dimples and laughter and everything that made her adorable and _his_.

"Fucking Jocelyn," he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. He wanted another drink. He wanted to black out.

There was a long pause and the singer began to chant out the old lyrics of _Let it Snow_. It was too cheerful and something seemed so surreal, but he blamed that on the alcohol.

"She shouldn't have taken your daughter away from you," Jim said unexpectedly. McCoy raised his head (oh, it was already starting to ache) to see Jim looking off in the distance of a darkened corner of the bar. He pulled his hand away to cross his arms across his chest defensively. "Kids need their dads."

McCoy didn't understand. Anything.

"Why the hell are you here?"

The words seemed almost physical in the air in front of him. They carved a path to Jim's face, his features in sharp focus before McCoy's bloodshot eyes.

"You're my friend," Jim answered. There was a catch in his voice, and his eyes flickered around the room before settling just to the left of McCoy's face.

"But why are you here?" McCoy wanted Jim to look at him. Couldn't understand why he was looking again. Why were his arms tightening against his chest so hard that the veins were popping out? "Why'd you come back? I fucking elbowed you in the eye. Why did you follow me on the street?"

"I needed a hamburger," Jim answered again without skipping a beat. His eyes weren't leaving the side of McCoy's face.

The alcohol rushed through his blood and into his head. There was a sudden surge of dizziness as McCoy placed his weight thickly on his legs, his calves straining as he leaned heavily against the table to take Jim's face into his hands.

"Why me? You said you never visit the same place twice. But you came back."

The world was spinning, but Jim was still in sharp vision. Too sharp.

"I wanted to see you again," Jim half-spoke, half-whispered. His breath might have brushed against McCoy's wrists, but that wasn't why he pulled away.

The seat was hard against his ass when he fell back into his seat. All of a sudden, the distance between himself and Jim seemed very far away. Didn't make sense. Should have been a short distance. What changed?

"Why?"

That single question. It slipped out, unbidden. It fell sloppily from his mouth and landed on the table, in the air for everyone to see.

"I fucking elbowed you in the goddamn eye and didn't apologize. I'm cranky and grumpy and can-cantankerous or whatever the hell you said I was."

He was rambling. He didn't know where he was going and the room was spinning and the music was almost deafening and too quiet at the same time. And Jim. He couldn't describe Jim to himself.

"I don't go to bars or meet women," he continued because really, he couldn't think of anything else to do. There was this fucking intense look in Jim's eyes as he finally stared at his face. His mouth was slack and pink and McCoy could see the hint of a wet tongue in the small cavity. "You're good-looking as hell and you know it. You're fun and could have so much more fun without me."

He never meant to say anything.

"I'm nothing like you. I'm a fucked up old man," he finished. He had no more words. They were used up, shriveled in his mind. Everything. Gone. Alcohol left him heavy and warm and unsure what to do next.

Jim's voice hollowed out the blackness that was starting to creep back into McCoy's life. Funny, Jim always got rid of the blackness. When he called, when he texted, when he randomly showed up. It was no surprise that when he spoke, his voice seemed to reach a part of McCoy that he thought he had lost to the demons of alcohol.

"You're not old. But we are alike," he spoke so slowly. He was underwater. He had to be, his voice was so wavery and slow. "We're both fucked up."

The screech of the chair legs against the floor should have grated against McCoy's ears, but he paid no attention as Jim readjusted his chair to bring himself closer.

"Bones, I'm here because…" he paused, his eyes darting around the room as he looked for something to magically appear. To tell him what to say. McCoy knew that look. It was the look he wore when he had to tell family members at the hospital that their loved one didn't make it out of surgery. When he had to tell them that things weren't looking up. It was the look he wore when Joanna had asked why he was leaving home.

Scared. Sorry. Hopeful for someone to save him. Jim embodied these looks with those blue eyes.

"Well, because you let me call you Bones. And you let me see pictures of Joanna," he said in a low voice. It was a revelation in the making, as though he were just figuring things out. McCoy would have been more appreciative of this personal growth if the room didn't seem to be spinning out of control. "And you work too hard and for some reason, I don't want you to kill yourself working."

His voice picked up speed and he leaned forward in his seat, his hands on McCoy's thighs. McCoy's mind was too thick with haze and alcohol and Christmas lights in the background to move the heated hands from his legs. The tone in Jim's deep voice was indefinable, McCoy wasn't sure if he could describe it even if he wasn't drunk off his ass and actually could remember his full vocabulary. That tongue just kept darting out pink and flashing as Jim licked his lips over and over again.

"For some reason, I just like spending time with you because you're making me see things a little differently."

And then the distance closed.

All McCoy could feel was pressure on his legs, heat against his chest, something wet against his lips. There was tongue and teeth in a whirlwind of taste and sensation as everything in the world seemed to expand and implode in his mouth at the same time. The pressure on his legs drifted to his arms as Jim leaned in further, his chest nearly parallel to McCoy's. He wondered whose heart he could feel as the pulse raced against his body.

Before he could even begin to understand, to comprehend, to really feel his world shake, it was over. Somewhat. The tongue was retreating and the air of the bar suddenly seemed cold against the wetness left on his mouth.

Jim lessened the pressure on McCoy's arms, though still held him as though he were afraid to let go. His fingers seemed to dance an erratic rhythm against the long-sleeves of McCoy's shirt and Jim let his forehead rest against McCoy's. He dipped his head just so and McCoy could feel the whisper of eyelashes against his temple.

_I'll be home for Christmas. If only in my dreams._

Jim wanted to speak, McCoy could feel those swollen lips move soundlessly as though trying to search for the missing words between them.

But no. This was wrong. This wasn't right. This was alcohol and Christmas music and loneliness speaking, holding them together.

McCoy pulled away, pushed at Jim. If Jim stumbled, if McCoy stumbled when he stood, then it was only part of the strange dance that had started between them. A choreographed set of awkward footings and Jim's hands were everywhere at once, holding McCoy up so that he wouldn't fall. And then the punch.

Their strange, unspoken two-step ended with a messy hit across Jim's flushed face. It wasn't a hard hit because McCoy saw three spinning Jims in front of him and could only hit one of them. He aimed for the one in the center and must have at least somewhat hit his target because Jim was on the floor, holding his face.

"You shouldn't have done that, Jim. It'll ruin everything."

He couldn't understand his words. Or his meaning. Or why his voice was so broken. Or why the words seemed so wrong. Or why Jim didn't hit him back or run away.

"I know. I shouldn't have," was all Jim could say as he stood like a statue from hell.

McCoy wanted to yell and fight and fucking hit him some more, but Jim wouldn't give him the goddamn satisfaction. Jim stood (swayed) quietly with his face full of something that McCoy couldn't decipher behind the blood.

He thought he might have said he was sorry, but it really wasn't clear to him anymore. Soon, all he could see was the blackness as it finally took over his vision and all he could feel was the faintest memory and trace of something warm, wet, and sweet against his mouth.

_Though it's been said many times, many ways, a very Merry Christmas to you._

* * *

_...so what did you think? In all honesty, I think that might be the best kiss scene I have ever written. (I'm not trying to brag, honest.) Anyway, I'm very curious to know what you all think. Please review!_


	6. of Forts and Presents

_Thank you to everyone who has been gracious enough to understand that I am unable to update as often as I would like. To make up for the long wait, I wrote extra. This sucker is like twenty pages on Microsoft Word. Holler. Thank you so much for reading and enjoying this fic!_

_**Notes**: This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. I'm not sure what sort of "verse" it is yet, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know! Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating._

_**Disclaimer**: No Star Trek for me. But maybe I'll get it for my birthday? Y/Y?_

_And now... the moment you've all been waiting for... Jim's past!_

* * *

McCoy had forgotten what taking fourteen (was it really that many?) shots of rum and other forms of alcohol could do to him the next morning. Afternoon.

He woke up around two in the afternoon with a headache that could wake the fucking dead and even though he couldn't understand that analogy, he thought that it was fitting, under the circumstances.

The bed was the only thing keeping him pinned to the world or else he felt as though he would have spun away out into the rainy day that seemed to exist just beyond his curtain-covered window. The light streaming in was weak and he was grateful for that because he felt that any more light might legitimately kill him.

Then like through a haze, he began to remember fragments of the night before. He couldn't remember much after the sixth or seventh shot (which was a mix of impressive and pathetic for him because he could usually drink anyone under the table on any given day) and wondered if Jim had let him pay the cab ride home.

There was something else he thought he might remember. Something about lights and singing and warmth in unfamiliar places. But the depths of his memory fell short of that particular incident and if it really mattered, Jim would fill him in.

Barely moving any more than necessary, he pulled the cell phone from his jean pockets that he apparently hadn't had the sense to remove last night before collapsing into bed. In this alcoholic mindset, he couldn't quite remember when Jim's number had been first on his speed dial, but was grateful for the ease of that moment.

"McCoy? Bones? McCoy?" came the startled answer.

McCoy couldn't understand why Jim had taken to calling him McCoy again. Had he asked him to do that sometime last night? He can't imagine that he would have done that, but it wouldn't be the first time he did something stupid under the influence.

"Jim, are you as hung-over as me?" he groaned into the phone.

Jim laughed slightly on the other end and if McCoy didn't know any better, he would have thought Jim sounded nervous. But this was James T. Kirk. He didn't do nervous.

"Probably not. I actually had a limit last night."

"Get your ass over here," McCoy muttered into the phone. Jim's laughter should have been murder on his throbbing head, but for some reason he found it soothing. Low and deep and _soothing_.

"Really?" Jim questioned, his voice rising at the end of the word in blatant curiosity.

Probably just ran his hand through his hair. _Damn hippie_, McCoy internally thought.

"Really."

They hung up and Jim must have been only a few blocks away because McCoy barely had time to drift off into a darker world with fewer lights before a soft knocking could be heard at his door.

Oh right. It was locked. Damn. He should have thought that one through.

Steeling himself against the forces of gravity and what it would do to his head's blood flow, he hoisted himself off of the bed and prepared himself for the overcoming sensation of nausea. Surprisingly, it was not as strong as he thought it would be and he managed to hobble over to the door to click the lock.

The door opened and McCoy's mouth dropped as he took in the sight.

"What the hell happened to you?"

Jim stood in the threshold, wearing a gray t-shirt that was covered with dried blood. It formed a triangle of sorts on the fabric, pointing downwards and McCoy could only assume it had been due to a nosebleed.

"You really don't remember?" Jim asked with an unleveled look in his narrowed eyes. The blue squinted out to McCoy in half-moon slivers under the hooded eyelids.

"No. What the hell did you do?" he prodded, clutching to the door like a safety preserver.

Jim noticed the white-clenched knuckles as McCoy gripped the door with practically inhuman strength. Without answering McCoy's questions, he gently moved McCoy's hands from the door and led him over to the bed so that McCoy could rest some more.

"Well, after you passed out from drunkenness, I brought you back to your apartment. I managed to wake you up when we got here and made you take some pills and drink a lot of water," he explained with a tiny shrug. "It's what I do to help ease the hangover."

McCoy tried to wonder what sort of agony he'd be in if Jim hadn't made him take those pills. It hurt to imagine it so he changed tracks.

"How'd you get in?" It wasn't necessarily suspicion, but he wouldn't put it past Jim to have made a spare key to the dingy apartment.

"I rummaged through your pants pockets until I found the keys. I swear, I wasn't trying to feel you up," he promised, holding his hands up in obvious defense.

"I know that," McCoy responded with a slight degree of surprise. Is that what Jim was so worried about?

"You didn't last night," Jim answered even more quietly than he had spoken before. His eyes looked away from McCoy at the closed curtains and a ghost of his old smirk crossed his face.

"Sorry," McCoy told him lamely. He leaned back against the old pillows on his bed, practically flattened from overuse. He'd have to buy more pillows soon.

"Don't be," Jim waved it off as he tore his eyes away from the green curtains. "It was… warranted, I guess." A ghost of his old smirk crossed his face as he crossed through the room, kicking off his shoes and gathering some pill bottles and a glass of water.

Wordlessly, he handed the supplies to McCoy who took the pain killers like a child ate candy. He wasn't about to swear off drinking forever, but today's hangover was enough to make him at least want to wait before he had another pity fest with a bottle (or two or three or eight).

The pills took a few minutes to take affect and he laid on his bed, too hot for the comforter. Jim sat backwards on the desk chair, his legs straddling the back as he faced McCoy.

"So, try to pick up some poor girl? Her boyfriend hit you?" McCoy asked, still wondering what had happened to Jim. He'd probably yell or tell him he was a goddamn fuck up when it came to women, but right now he was ready to worship Jim as the Bringer of Medication.

"Actually, there was no girl."

Well, that was a glimmer of shock through his body if McCoy ever knew one.

"Get hit over a game of pool or something? Did you piss off one of the band members?" McCoy questioned some more, the blurry memory of the musicians swarming in his mind.

"Hit on a guy this time," Jim answered with those same narrowed eyes he had possessed when McCoy first opened the door.

This wasn't the first time McCoy had heard about Jim's exploits with a man. Months ago, during one of Jim's stories of his latest conquests in Canada, he had mentioned something about a hockey player because "when you're in Canada, that's what you do. Or who you do, in this case."

_"Gay? Straight? Bi? What are you?" McCoy asked with a fair amount of curiosity coloring his tone, much to Kirk's amusement._

_"I am a lover of people," Kirk declared with grandeur as he spread his arms wide as though hugging the universe. "I like people. I make judgments, but not on gender."_

_"So, basically, your preference is human?" McCoy smirked, watching as Kirk placed his hands on his hips like the superhero of STDs._

_"For now," Kirk conceded with that odd little half-shrug of his. That shit-eating grin grew to copious amounts of playfulness as it spread across his face. "I have a feeling that I'd bang an alien though if I ever met one."_

_"You know, I don't doubt that," McCoy answered with a hint of genuine laughter behind his usually gruff voice. The sound caused Kirk to smile even more broadly, if that was even possible._

_They continued their walk through the tiny park next to McCoy's apartment, careful to avoid anything that looked like poison ivy._

_"Does it bother you?" Kirk quipped suddenly, his voice turning into childish-seriousness._

_"Not in the slightest. Can't be bothered by stuff like that in San Francisco," he replied with ease and honesty, much to the pleasure of Kirk if his broad smile was any indication._

_But if McCoy was honest with himself, it wasn't because he was from San Francisco. He had a feeling he could have been from anywhere in the world and he would have been alright with anything Kirk told him. There are stupider things to lose a friendship over._

"Well, you're lucky he didn't hit you any harder," McCoy found himself saying as he was brought out of his summer-memory.

As Jim nodded in agreement, McCoy motioned to him to bring the chair closer to the bed so that he could examine the minor injury. Jim obliged and when McCoy gestured soundlessly to the closet, Jim knew immediately to fetch the medical bag.

A simple silence fell between them as Jim turned the chair around to sit normally and face McCoy, who sat on the edge of the bed. His head still pounded, but the sensation felt further away and less intense than it had when he first woke up.

He reached out slowly with practiced doctor-hands and Jim barely flinched from the touch. If anything, he leaned into it slightly. As McCoy's hands ran over the scrapes and discolored bumps on the warm skin, he had a sudden image of an even younger Jim. Too drunk for it to be fun and maybe on those drugs he confessed to have used before in the park.

There really wasn't much that McCoy could do but put a few salves on the cuts and make sure nothing was infected, but that image was too strong and too bitter in his mind, left an acidic taste in his mouth so he kept smoothing his hands over the broken and battered skin.

Damned if he didn't want to protect Jim. From drugs, being too drunk, getting hit. From everything that he seemed to thrive on.

Jim didn't seem to mind the gentle touches to his face. McCoy continued until Jim's eyes began to droop with sleepiness from the relaxing ministrations.

"Don't fall asleep on me now," McCoy warned. But his voice lacked its usual gruffness and Jim could only grin.

McCoy noticed the grin was lopsided as though a full grin would stretch out the bruises and semi-healed cuts on his face in a way that would irritate him. Once more, he felt another surge of desire for Jim to heal faster.

"It's New Years Eve," Jim reminded him as McCoy leaned away from of him. His realization of their sudden closeness was fucking unnerving as hell. "You want to go out?"

"I'm a doctor, not a party animal," he gruffed to Jim, careful not to look into those damn pleading eyes. He knew that once he looked at Jim's best puppy-dog face, he'd be a goner and off to some random party.

Jim laughed at the comment, careful not to let the sound omit too loudly out of respect for McCoy's deadly hangover. But he actually pressed a hand to his pink mouth to muffle the cheerful sounds.

"Oh, that was a good one, Bones."

McCoy couldn't help but feel glad that Jim was using his nickname for him again. Whatever he had been worried about before seemed to have dissipated.

It was a _thank you for saving my pretty boy face_ and a _if you ever fucking show up looking like that again, I won't help you, dammit_ before Jim finally exited the apartment to leave McCoy alone to sleep off the rest of his headache.

McCoy sat listlessly on his bed, staring at the closed door for a few moments. Jim never said good bye, but he knew that it would be a while, maybe months, until he saw Jim again.

He lay on the bed, ready to succumb to the blissful darkness known as sleep when the regret of declining Jim's invitation to go out began to fill him. His last thought before he slipped away to sleep was the image of Jim kissing someone at the stroke of midnight.

He would just blame that thought on the hangover.

* * *

McCoy was wrong. Somehow beyond what he ever expected, Jim showed up at the hospital the next day (during his busiest hours, of course) with a hickey the size of Texas decorating his neck just below the smooth line of his jaw.

"Fun night?" was the only comment McCoy could spare him as he bustled by with a clipboard in his hands.

"Like you wouldn't believe!" Jim called out after him as McCoy turned the corner to get some medication for one of his idiot patients who had been drunk enough the night before to smash a punch bowl over his head.

Minor stitches and a prescription for pain killers. Great. Goddamnfuckingmorons. Every damn one of them.

And Jim stayed in that seat for the remainder of McCoy's shift, always grinning and waving whenever McCoy had a spare second to come back and check to make sure he was still there. Just grinning and waving like a fucking loon.

Somehow, at the end of the shift, McCoy returned to the reception area in all its florescent lighted glory. The tiles were scuffed after a long day and he did not envy the janitors' work that night. It had been a long day and even the ninety degree corners between the wall and the floor were looking helter skelter.

He needed a beer. Or a nap. Mostly a nap because he was still feeling a little wary towards alcohol after that _incident_ a few days ago.

But Jim just wouldn't allow that. He was still lounged in the seat like he had all the damn time in the world. Anyone else would have had an ass cramp from sitting in a shitty plastic chair for several hours, but no. Jim had a way of making everything look like a damn throne.

Then with the air and grandeur of royalty, he somehow convinced McCoy to come back to his hotel room.

"I have something to give you. A Christmas gift," he had explained in earnest. He blinked for the briefest second and, oh God, was he really batting his eyelashes at him?

Instead of snapping back with some biting comment or even giving him a suitable glare, McCoy's stomach just grumbled with obvious displeasure. Jim smiled with victory and leaned back into the chair, his chest puffed out like a peacock's under his bright green t-shirt.

"We'll go to your place so you can change out of those fucking ugly scrubs, then we can go to my hotel and order room service." He paused as he stood and that familiar glint returned to those vivid eyes of his. "I'm thinking burgers and coffee."

If there was food in this whole proposition, who was McCoy to say no?

* * *

So an hour later, a trip in and out of McCoy's apartment ("You were in and out so quickly. If the building were a woman, she'd be crying with disappointment right now."), and several half-hearted arguments about how gray scrubs were perfectly acceptable ("But Bones! They do nothing for your complexion!"), they ended up in front of the White Swan Inn.

McCoy actually snorted and looked over at Jim. He was about to make a comment about how the name was a bit gay, but there was an odd tension in Jim's face that seemed simultaneously wrong and out-of-place. The words twisted around in his mouth until finally he spoke.

"Not exactly the Ritz, kid," he ended up saying, shifting under the weak sunlight that shone down on the pair as they stood unmoving before the glass doors.

"Yeah, well," Jim said, hiding away that uncomfortable look with a flash of a grin that was only a few degrees fainter than his usual smirk. "Some old man once told me I was wasting my money."

"Sounds like a smart guy," McCoy muttered with a smirk of his own as Jim led the way into the building.

"Eh, he's alright," Jim brushed off the comment with a blasé glance towards McCoy before he fucking sauntered into the lobby of the hotel.

For a moment, for just one moment, McCoy almost allowed himself to indulge the childish urge to chase Jim into the elevator. Almost.

* * *

"Oh, wow," Jim chuckled as he ripped off the paper to the sloppily wrapped gift that McCoy had handed to him just moments before.

In his hands lay a still-packaged marshmallow gun with a bag of marshmallows tucked inside. Jim immediately began freeing the juvenile weapon from its cardboard confines.

"Well, I figured you seem to like defying all the rules. So this gives you a gun on a plane without actually being a threat," McCoy grinned, the side of his mouth pulled upwards as he leaned back into the chair.

"You don't think I'm a threat otherwise?" came Jim's reply as he raised an eyebrow with a knowing smile on his face.

"As far as I know, being an annoying bastard isn't against the law," McCoy paused for some theatrics before finishing, "yet."

Jim let out a bark of a laugh and rolled himself off of the bed James-Bond-Style to the mini-refrigerator a few feet away. Looking back and forth in an exaggerated spy mode, he threw the door open and tossed the back of marshmallows into the small freezer section of the appliance.

Then he spun on the tips of his feet as he rose up from the ground in a fluid movement. He faced McCoy with his head tipped towards his chest so he could stare at the older man from under his eyebrows.

"Call me Kirk. James Kirk."

The two men stood staring at each other before bursting into bouts of laughter and McCoy couldn't remember the last time he had felt this okay with his life.

Jim found himself back on the bed and the golden-and-ivory comforter crumbled under his laughing body. The incandescent light bulbs in the ceilings fixtures shone softly on his young features and glinted against those pearly white teeth and the flash of wet tongue that appeared between them.

It was a surprisingly sobering image and McCoy found himself catching his breath. Jim twisted himself on the bed, somewhat breathless with laughter. It was just a trick of the light, nothing substantial at all, but McCoy thought his eyes might have looked bluer.

"Why'd you put the marshmallows in the freezer?" he questioned, trying to distract himself from too much gold-and-blue.

"So that they are frozen when I put them in the gun," Jim explained with a damn patronizing tone as though McCoy were a fucking two-year-old.

McCoy resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead tried to imagine being hit with a cold and probably fairly hard ball of fluff.

"Doesn't sound fair," he commented off-handedly, looking back over at Jim.

With a look that could kill, his eyes narrowed into devious slivers and his grin spread slowly across his boyish face.

"Oh, there are no rules in a marshmallow war."

* * *

Jim must have really been an infant because he even said he felt like a little kid and actually demanded that McCoy help him make a fort.

So with much grumbling and insincere insults, McCoy found himself settled between the edge of the bed and the chair with the comforter overhead like the world's softest ceiling. The light barely made its way through the fabric, and there was a yellow-ish tint to the light, colored by the golden threads.

The tiny room they had created for themselves was dimly lit, warm, comforting, and everything a fort should be for a child. And like one such child, Jim sat across from him, grinning gleefully.

"Open your gift!" he exclaimed, settling down more comfortably onto the pillow he had placed beneath him ("When your ass looks this good, you need to pamper it. …Want one, Bones?")

McCoy chuckled in his throat and ripped the cartoon-reindeer wrapping paper from the large, thin package that sat in his lap. Within seconds, he held a large nine-photo picture collage. It was wooden and simple, the empty frames were of different sizes and were both landscape and portrait.

"I noticed you had a few pictures of Joanna that were just loose in an envelope. I thought maybe you could frame a few," Jim explained with a delighted shrug, clearly proud of his gift-giving abilities.

McCoy could only smile, dragging a single finger down the edge of one frame. He could already picture which picture would go where. Right in the center would be the one from when he took her to the fish pond. She loved feeding the fish and geese.

"There's something else in the wrapping," Jim pointed out, gesticulating towards the crumpled wrapping paper.

McCoy searched through the paper only to find a pair of scissors. He looked up at Jim with a questioning look in his eyes.

"For all those pictures that have Jocelyn in them," Jim explained, smirking. "Sometimes you have to cut all the bad shit out of your life."

The chuckle resounded in his throat once more as he looked fondly at the gift. Then, a thought struck him.

"How did you know her name was Jocelyn?" he asked, pushing the gift out of the fort to focus more on Jim.

Jim shifted a little on his pillow and licked his lips briefly before he answered.

"You talked a lot when you were drunk," he finally said. His words were brief as though all the words he knew weren't enough to express everything he wanted to explain.

"What did I say?" McCoy asked gruffly, adding a sharper-than-usual edge to his voice to avoid any nervousness that might have otherwise crept in.

"Well, as far as I know, everything," Jim continued with a long sigh. He shrugged his shoulders and looked off unseeing to the left at the overhanging comforter. "Jocelyn and that guy, Clay or something. You kept saying that fucking Jocelyn sold your fucking house. You mentioned your father a few times, too." He paused his slow speech, averting his eyes to the hands folded loosely in his lap before looking up through his thick, dark lashes to stare at McCoy with sincere empathy. "I didn't know your father died."

"It never came up," McCoy half-answered, half-barked. He shifted uncomfortably under Jim's intense stare and wished he had taken Jim up on his offer for a pillow to sit on.

Jim just nodded steadily, his eyes unblinking as he continued to watch McCoy. Then he sighed again and unfolded his hands to let them lie hesitantly on his knees. His eyes did their usual dance around the surrounding area before settling once again on McCoy's face. This time, there was a determined, steely look to the usually gentle blue of his eyes.

"My father died, too."

The words hung in the air like a solid mass and McCoy stared into those eyes and tried to distinguish between the different shades of cerulean and azure. His hand might have twitched from where it rested on the ivory carpet beside him.

"C'mon, Bones," Jim chided lightly, with that barely-there tease in his voice. "You told me everything. You deserve to know about me."

It was an offer. A balance. One of those rare moments when Jim was letting down his damn defenses. McCoy felt as though he were staring at something strange and unnatural. He was staring down a lion's throat and if he wasn't careful, he knew he'd be swallowed up.

But he was beginning to see the shades of blue between the iris and the cerulean and he realized he was already too far gone to avoid Jim any longer.

"Dammit, Jim," he said quietly without his usual bite in his catchphrase.

"Don't tell me you weren't curious," Jim pushed, that teasing tone easing into something more genuine.

There was no denying it. He had been curious. Then, leaning in like a child in a tent about to hear a ghost story, McCoy shifted in his spot on the floor until every ounce of his attention was trained on Jim. He would hear every word, every catch, every nuance of emotion. He would see every twitch, every tell, every flash of Jim's eyes.

Satisfied that he was the center of McCoy's attention, Jim began.

The space between them lessened and lessened until their knees were touching, heat faintly radiating as McCoy provided the barest minimum of physical contact. But Jim seemed so far away that the small distance could have stretched for miles and it wouldn't have made a difference.

For all intents and purposes, Jim was lost to McCoy. His blue eyes were glazed over as he talked and talked and talked, his tongue slipping without fault over the words he spoke so quietly.

His father had died. The day he was born. Apparently, the great George Kirk had been a cargo pilot for years, carrying goods cross-country with only himself, a crew, and no passengers. Then one day in March, he received one of the most important transmissions of his life. McCoy, as a father himself, pictured a man who looked too much like Jim sitting behind the controls of a plane with the world's biggest smile on his face as an exhausted sigh of pain and happiness sounded through the headphones. That sigh coupled with the sounds of a baby's first cry and the mother's whispered words of "I wish you could be here." McCoy could imagine that happiness swelling within the man, maybe tears of happiness and regret as he drove the plane.

According to Jim, George was distracted and never saw them coming. He was too concerned with his new son to know that there was another plane just beyond the distance. Terrorists, some organization that called themselves Nero.

Jim never slipped in his words, kept speaking in a tone that border-lined between a history teacher and a man holding back a yell. He blinked once, twice in the golden light as he told McCoy how Nero tried to get his father to crash into some government buildings. Again, McCoy pictured the Jim-lookalike with a determined expression, hands gripping the controls as he crashed into a field to avoid the buildings.

Terrorists. Some organization named Nero. Nero tried to get Dad to crash into some government buildings, but he managed to just crash into some field. Dad wasn't a passenger pilot, he just carried goods across the country so only the crew died. George Kirk included.

"All that's left of him is a copy of the transmission my mom and he shared," Jim spoke in that low voice, his tone teetering between something soft and something bitter. His hands clenched and unclenched in his lap as though he wasn't sure what to do. "He told her he loved her and then there was the crash. He would have killed over eight-hundred people if he hadn't evaded Nero."

A pause.

"Twelve minutes after I was born, he died," he finally continued without a single catch in his voice. He was braver than McCoy ever realized. "And all he left behind was a twelve-minute-long transmission and a son who apparently looks like he did."

And then McCoy saw the guilt. He saw how it threatened to consume Jim, how it ate him from the inside out. Anyone else might have said they were sorry, might have held Jim's hand. But McCoy waited out the silence and allowed the moment to wash over both of them. Jim needed to do this on his own terms.

The quiet atmosphere deafened and Jim, scared as always of silence, spoke again. He spoke of "hey, your husband died! Here's a check to make you feel better" money that his mother accepted, probably with a sob. But she worked all the time, leaving Jim and her older son, Sam, at home with their grandparents. A young woman, suddenly widowed, feeling guilty with two little sons without an idea of what to do. The image was too clear and as a doctor, McCoy had seen a mother's fear too often.

Jim's voice made it too easy to see an image of two small, blonde boys stuck in an Iowa suburb with grandparents who tried to distract them from a dead father and a mother with her very own disappearing act.

"She was always busy, always moving around, always doing something," Jim said with an uncharacteristically ugly look on his face as he fisted his hands tighter and tighter. "She was never home. She couldn't sit still."

"Sounds like someone else I know," McCoy responded into the resulting silence, the words slipping away from him unbidden.

Jim's eyes flashed and his face hardened, the results of McCoy's words and the memory of his mother.

"No," he answered with a sense of finality. "I'm not like her. It's different."

When his hands finally unclenched, there were half-moons carved into the skin with red winking out at McCoy like a twisted illustration from a fairytale.

The story continued because it was too late for Jim to back out of the explanation now. The bitterness was clear in his face, his voice became more erratic, his breathing more intense as he described life in Iowa. Everyone in town knew who the Kirk boys where and "wasn't it a fucking shame that they didn't have a father?" Jim stressed that he wasn't made of fucking glass, that Sam wasn't made of fucking glass either and they. Would. Have. Been. Just. Fine. But no one seemed to realize that and everyone walked around like eggshells surrounded them every damn Father's Day.

Jim finally allowed his voice to crack when he mentioned his grandparents' deaths. McCoy gave him a moment of contemplative silence as he understood too well what it was like to lose yourself in memories of better times and horrible endings. But then he nudged Jim's knees with his own and wordlessly urged him to continue.

"For as long as I can remember, she always needed someone else to be the buffer in the room when it was just her, me, and Sam."

Then Jim explained how Frank came along right after his grandmother's funeral. His description of the man was sparse and all McCoy could picture was a tall, dark figure that Jim probably never really dealt with unless he had to. Apparently, he wasn't a bad guy, just a man who didn't understand or like children. Jim and Sam were just sorta there to him. Just existing on the periphery of his marriage to their mother.

"It's not Mom's fault that she fell in love with someone else," Jim shrugged with words that sounded rehearsed, as though he had told himself over and over that what he was saying was true. "Everyone deserves to be happy, I guess."

It was the look on his face, that look of total detachment that made McCoy want to grab Jim's hand. But he didn't know how to grasp the clenched hands that seemed so far away, so he just sat on his knuckles and fingers instead.

"It really wasn't anyone's fault. It's not her fault that she sent him the transmission and distracted him. It's not my fault that I was born at that moment. It's not my fault that I look like Dad. But we can't seem to get past that."

He was a runaway train and McCoy could do nothing but wait for the final impact. Jim's words kept going and going and he wasn't taking a breath, just spoke and spoke as though the words weren't even fully formed in his mind when he opened his mouth.

"She's not a bad mother," he stressed, finally slowing down his words and looking McCoy in the eye with a strained expression. "She just didn't know what to do. I don't blame her."

It would have been very convincing if he didn't use a tone that made McCoy think that, yeah actually, he did blame her.

And he blamed Sam, even if he didn't state it outright. He blamed Sam for running away when Jim was ten, just two years after Frank came around. He just said there was nothing to do when you're a kid stuck in Iowa who never wanted to stay home with your mom and reluctant step-dad. So Jim just started working to distract himself and keep himself out of the house. Odds and ends jobs, cleaning gutters, delivering newspapers. Anything he could get.

McCoy tried to picture a younger Jim with hair that still flopped in his face and a softer chin and less defined cheekbones. He tried to think of him growing up into an angry teenager with an awkward jaw that learned to work in the local auto shop. Coming home without saying a word to his mother who probably never asked any questions anyway. Or maybe never coming home at all, just working all day and losing himself to some girl at night.

But Jim, aside from the drinking and sex in high school, managed to graduate and work and save up enough money to add to the gee-sorry-your-dad-died inheritance he got when he was eighteen.

"Have you ever wanted to leave a place so badly that it actually hurt?" Jim asked, directly focusing his attentions on McCoy for the first time in almost ten minutes. Twenty minutes? Their fort was a vortex, swallowing up time as McCoy began to understand what made his friend tick.

"Yes," he answered as he realized that Jim was actually waiting for an answer.

Jim actually grinned a little, his face laced with sardonic appreciation. In the back of McCoy's mind, he remembered a moment between himself and Jim when Jim had said with a tone that matched his expression that they were both a little fucked-up.

"Iowa fucking sucked," he continued, breaking McCoy away from what he assumed was a drunken memory. "I bet I would still hate it if I ever went back there. There's nothing good left. Just a mom who doesn't like to look me in the eye and a step-dad who doesn't know what to fucking say to me."

So what does an eighteen year old kid with too much money end up doing? Moving to San Diego because that was where his father used to work and for some reason, he just thought "what the hell? Why not?" Jim got a job working at a motorcycle shop and within just a few months, ended up running it. He saved up his money and wanted to travel to China.

To visit Spock, McCoy concluded. Jim answered his questioning look with a silent nod and McCoy was suddenly surprised by this new form of non-verbal communication.

_When the hell did that happen_, he wondered for two seconds before Jim spoke again and broke through his distracted thoughts.

Apparently, the mysterious Pike Jim had mentioned a while ago (had they really been friends for half a year now?) was actually pilot Christopher Pike who had worked closely with his father. He had known Jim's mother of course and was probably a better parental figure than Jim's mother could ever claim to be (a thought that made McCoy practically growl and wish he could set Mrs. Kirk straight on a number of points) because he felt Jim might benefit from talking to kids outside of Iowa.

Spock's father was an ambassador, so that was how Pike knew him. It was a connection that McCoy didn't fully understand how a pilot and ambassador knew each other, but Jim was still talking and that was the important part. As long as Jim kept talking, McCoy would keep listening.

Spock was, in Jim's mind, pretty cool. Not in the traditional sense, but he was easy to talk to. Jim told McCoy about the letters he would send to China, saving up money to buy enough stamps and envelopes so that he could tell Spock all about the problems he had. Fighting in school, yelling at Frank, blaming his mother for everything. And Spock found a way to talk him out of a lot of the probably very sticky situations. McCoy made a mental note to send him a fruit basket or some other form of "good God, man, thank you" token because the intensity and gratitude on Jim's face made him pretty sure that Spock saved his life with those letters and written advice. According to Jim, he was a logical person and made too much sense sometimes.

After leaving Iowa, a much younger and angrier Jim realized he wanted some logic of his own. So barely out of his home state, he took a plane for the first time ever and wound up in China.

The muscles in Jim's face were lessening. It would have been overlooked by anyone else, but there was little else to focus on in the tiny fort and McCoy wouldn't have looked away for anything in the world. Jim was balancing on a thread, barely there, but something told McCoy that the story was taking a turn for the better. That it was coming to its inevitable conclusion.

"Did you find logic?" McCoy asked, starting to feel the initial bites of relief.

"Nah, that's Spock's area. Not mine," Jim answered with a small shake of his head. The strange smile was back on his face, but there was less of a twist this time. McCoy could see the hint of white teeth, just barely seen between lips too red from being bitten at so many times while he spoke.

Then the smile grew wider into almost a true grin and his eyes looked beyond McCoy as he thought back to when he met Spock.

"I found China instead. And I found new cultures and new experiences and everything that Iowa never was."

And McCoy could begin to understand what Jim could see and his own mind was filled with the colorful images of China that he had seen in movies and other propaganda. He could start to understand that thrill of learning something new and foreign and frighteningly larger than yourself.

"And for the first time, I understood why Mom didn't like to be in one place for too long," he continued, bringing his eyes back to McCoy's and the blue seemed to actually glow a little brighter in the faint light of their fort. "So I sold the motorcycle shop and with the money I had saved up, I started traveling. Anywhere. Everywhere."

Jim would have been a psychiatrist's wet dream because moments ago, he had been seething in a quiet anger and resentment that seemed to radiate off of him in nearly tangible waves. But now, he was smiling and grinning and the pain was nearly completely hidden as he thought back on all his travels.

"With the exception of Spock's hometown, San Francisco, and a few other cities here and there, I've never visited anywhere twice."

Pride. That was the only thing McCoy could decipher from his voice any longer. Pride that he had gotten away, had seen other countries. That he had done what his mother had never allowed him to do.

McCoy didn't answer right away and though Jim said nothing else, his face tightened the smallest amount and his eyes narrowed with suspicion as though waiting for McCoy to ask something too personal or to make some sort of unwelcome judgment.

McCoy wondered how he felt when sitting on a plane to visit a country overseas. Did he ever think of his father? And he burned to know the answer, but denied himself the chance to ask and settled for a different question.

"When did you start traveling?"

"About three years ago," Jim said, settling back into his pillow. His eyes lost that suspicious look and appeared almost languid after his emotional display and retelling. "I was twenty. Barely made a dent in the money from Dad's insurance."

"Doesn't mean you should waste it," McCoy shot back a little too quickly.

Maybe it was in the way that he was suddenly pretending that his father's insurance was nothing more than a convenience for him to see other cities. Maybe it was the way that he seemed to shut himself away from McCoy by pulling his knees away. Whatever it was, McCoy's lips pursed and he felt almost accusatory towards Jim.

"Hey, traveling and staying at nice hotels?" Jim answered back just as quickly, practically falling over himself to defend his way of life. "It keeps me happy. That's what counts. Being happy."

That damn look in his face, McCoy wasn't sure who he was really trying to convince. But Jim showed all the signs of someone just running away from everything in the world and McCoy wondered if he and Spock were the only two people keeping him grounded in the world.

"What about later, when the money runs out?" he stressed, growing deeply concerned for Jim. For his friend. For everything Jim was to him.

"I'm not worried about later," he told McCoy with all the expressions of a defiant child. "I'm focused on the right now."

"If you don't focus on what's coming up, you're going to mess everything up," McCoy warned him in a quiet voice. He was steadying himself against speaking too loudly because he was not going to chase Jim away from this. He couldn't. "You're going to lose everything."

"Yeah, well, I don't believe in no-win situations," Jim responded with that fucking defiance laced in his tone, coloring his facial expression.

It shouldn't have been enough to calm McCoy down, but it did. It calmed him down, it brought him back from the terrifying edge he had just been looking down from and he remembered that they were sitting in their golden fort, looking at each other like they were the last two people on earth.

"Sometimes you are such a fucking kid," McCoy informed him, drawing a weary hand down his face.

"Would you have me any other way, Bones?" Jim smirked with a flutter of his eyelashes.

"No," he relented with a roll of his eyes. Funny how often Jim made him do that.

Jim's smirk grew a little wider before the silence took over once more. The smirk faded away in slow degrees until they were both somber-faced and staring at each other.

"Why did you tell me all of this?" McCoy had to know. He just had to.

"Because you told me your whole life," Jim shrugged as though the answer was obvious. His eyes were doing that shifting thing again and there was a blur of blue as he avoided McCoy's gaze. "It's only fair."

Then blue met hazel and they looked at each other and McCoy was sure that his heart stopped. Or restarted. Or something. But Jim was looking at him and that mattered.

"Plus, I wanted to tell you," he answered with a look of self-clarification. "I've never wanted to tell that to anyone before."

McCoy wondered if he was actually informing McCoy or if he were just speaking his thoughts out loud.

"Why did you?" he pressed when he thought that Jim was slipping away from him once more.

"You're my friend," Jim answered in that it's-so-obvious voice again. His hands fell to his sides again and began picking at a loose thread on the carpet.

"Why?" For some reason, it was imperative that McCoy knew.

"This sounds so much like the conversation at the bar," Jim said with a hint of laughter in his voice.

With a distinct feeling that he was going to regret asking, he pushed his questions onto Jim.

"Oh yeah? How'd you answer at the bar?"

Something in Jim seemed to change as though he were somewhat surprised and taken aback by McCoy's question.

"I said a lot of things," he began slowly. "To recap, I said that I needed a hamburger, we're both fuck-ups, and that I don't want you to kill yourself working."

"Well, golly, thanks for caring," McCoy smirked sarcastically. He expected Jim to answer with some damn snarky comment. Then they could leave this strange cocoon of Jim's whispered life that defined him in ways that McCoy could only begin to understand.

The air seemed stale with all their talking, but Jim didn't appear to want to move away like McCoy did. The smirk dropped from his face as he peered more deeply into Jim's face. Jim seemed to grasp at words and finally when he spoke, it was halting and confusing and McCoy really didn't understand anything anymore.

"Hey, Bones?" he started with just the barest brush of tentativeness coating his words.

"Yeah?" he answered back, unsure of where this was going.

"I kissed you at the bar."

The tentativeness had disappeared from his voice and when he spoke, the words were solid and louder and much more dare-you-to-hit-me. He wasn't shrinking away, but he seemed to fall back into the golden shadows, allowing the gentle light to rest against his features.

McCoy should have been angry or felt violated. He should have yelled. Ran away. Left their fort, for God's sakes. He should have done a lot of things.

But he just lowered the shoulders that he hadn't realized were tensed and released the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

All he focused on was the golden light on the golden boy in front of him who seemed more scared to tell him that he had kissed him than he had seemed about his father's death.

Something in the way that golden shadow hid him and illuminated him at the same time stopped McCoy's rising fear and anger and uncertainty.

"Why?"

He may have been beating the question to death, but he felt this irrepressible urge to know. To know everything. To understand what Jim had done and why-oh-fucking-why-did-he-pick-him?

Jim blinked in surprise and visibly flinched as though expecting the hit that never came his way.

"Because I was drunk. Not as drunk as you, but still drunk," he answered carefully, as though afraid that the wrong words would set McCoy off. "You were upset. You didn't understand why fucking Jocelyn had hurt you and you kept asking why I was your friend."

When the words did not shake McCoy and did not make him lash out against Jim, Jim relaxed a little and drew himself out of the shadows. He dragged a hand through his shaggy hair and shrugged.

"You were upset and I wanted to cheer you up," he said simply.

"It wasn't just some random guy who hit you. It was me."

It wasn't a question, just a statement. A clarification for his own sanctity of mind. He didn't understand why he wasn't shocked or upset, but things were off balance and maybe there are some things in life that just can't be explained.

Jim just nodded, his eyes never leaving McCoy's.

"I really am sorry about it. I don't know why I did it."

McCoy found himself staring at those lips and realizing that those lips had been on his, had touched his. And that was when he reacted. He rose abruptly from the floor, nearly dizzy from how quickly he stood up. The comforter was brusquely pushed aside from his head, mussing up his dark hair in the process.

The air outside their fort was a bit colder, fresher. The lights were brighter and harsher and then McCoy looked around at the hotel room and remembered that there was this whole world outside of the small one they had created for themselves.

Jim stood up just as quickly and seemed to hold a hand out as though he wanted to grip McCoy's shoulder or something. But he must have thought better of it because the hand drifted away and slid into his pocket awkwardly.

"It didn't mean anything to me. Just too much alcohol on my behalf and aren't you always telling me that I'm just a sex-crazed kid who never means anything? Not even a kiss?" he smiled with a hint of his usual charm, but it faltered just the tiniest bit.

McCoy managed a chuckle that sounded more like choking and avoided Jim's eyes.

"Clearly it doesn't mean anything to you," he replied, gesturing at the hickey still prominently displayed on the taunt skin of Jim's neck.

Jim's smirk appeared again and he waved the comment aside.

"Redhead. Named Gaila. I needed a kiss at midnight. It's tradition, Bones."

The nickname fell from his lips with ease and McCoy wondered why that felt so good and why the image of Jim attached at the lip to a redhead felt so wrong.

It was just a physical mark that the kiss between the two men meant nothing and really, that should have comforted him.

"I don't blame you," he told Jim sincerely. Everything was still off-balance and the two men were maneuvering themselves around each other like they were afraid to make the first move. "It's really okay."

Something invisible seemed to collide in the air and all at once, Jim was standing at the doorway, waving good bye to McCoy as he walked down the hallway to the elevator to go back to his apartment.

In his left hand, he held the picture collage. In his right hand, he held the scissors. In his mind, he held the promise that Jim would be back from visiting Spock in just a month or two.

_"I told him I'd see him over the Christmas break."_

_"Sounds fun. Have a good time."_

McCoy wondered how long the awkwardness would last between them. If it were anyone else in the world, he had a feeling the awkwardness would be permanent. But this was Jim and Jim seemed to pull off the impossible and unbelievable all the time.

He was counting on that.

* * *

The apartment was dark when he finally arrived home just minutes before midnight. He hadn't realized just how long he had been at Jim's hotel.

Placing the gifts gently on his unmade bed, he turned on a single desk lamp to dimly light up the room. He wasn't in the mood for overhead lights and total illumination. Jim's emotional rollercoaster had taken him for a right and he felt more than a little punch-drunk from the whole night.

The hamburgers at the hotel seemed so very far away and McCoy busied himself with grabbing some crackers before rustling through the closet for that envelope of Joanna's pictures.

He sat on the bed, crackers and envelope resting beside him on the pillow, and removed the cardboard backing from the collage. Something on the cardboard caught his attention. Frowning, he held it closer to the light. In blue ink, someone had scrawled a message to him.

_Just call her._

_I'll bet she misses you as much as you miss her._

_Merry Christmas, Bones._

_-J_

_Yeah_, McCoy thought to himself as he smiled at the messy handwriting, _things'll be fine between us._

* * *

_So, what do you think? For everyone that was trying to guess his profession, did I surprise you? I think you guys should review. It would be a really awesome birthday gift for me because it is officially after midnight and today (the 29th) is my birthday!!!!!_

_I hope you all enjoyed it! Thanks again for reading. :)_


	7. of Little Girls and Older Women

_Hello my wonderful readers! I am (finally) updating, but I swear I have a good reason. Last week and this week were midterms. 7 classes + 7 midterms = NO TIME TO WRITE. Or sleep, really. And then this past weekend was completely shot thanks to a Sunday night visit to the ER and an impromptu surgical procedure to take care of the MRSA that had invested in my leg. ... Not fun. Want to know the worst part? There was no Doctor McCoy to patch me up. :( Anyway, that's why this chapter is a long time coming. I'm sorry and I'll try (key word: try) to get the next chapter out to you guys soon._

_**Notes**: This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. I'm not sure what sort of "verse" it is yet, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know! Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating._

_**Disclaimer**: I own the second, third, and fourth ST movies! (Birthday gift from the best roommate in the world) But I don't own Star Trek._

* * *

In the end, it all boiled down to one question:

"If you don't tell me your new address, how the hell am I supposed to send you the damn alimony checks?"

And then the yelling ceased. On the end of his phone, all he could hear was her angered breathing, the halted breath of someone who realized she had just lost.

When she spoke again, it was clipped tones with sardonic politeness dripping from each vowel. But none of that mattered to McCoy. All that mattered was that he managed to get his daughter's new address and phone number.

To be honest, he was a bit surprised. They only fought for about fifteen minutes and he never once threatened to take her to court. They really were getting better at this whole "divorced" mess.

* * *

Her voice sounded different from the last time he spoke to her. She sounded a little older in her seven-year old wisdom and the lisp was long gone.

McCoy never realized how much he would miss that lisp. And once more, the flood of guilt that he has missed out on milestones in his daughter's life filled him beyond capacity.

But for once in his life, he didn't focus on the anger or the guilt or any of the other hateful emotions that coursed through his veins. Instead, he listened to his beautiful daughter as she talked about her new house and her friends at school.

And even if he cringed when she mentioned her new step-father, he couldn't let it show. He kept his voice light-hearted and pleasant because damned if he was going to screw up another moment in his life. This was too important. Joanna was too important.

"He'll never be you, Daddy. I'll always love you most."

"I'll always love you, too, baby."

* * *

The warmest January day in San Francisco was probably equal to the coldest winter day in Georgia. McCoy couldn't imagine how anyone would manage to live in the northern states. Sure, snow looked pretty on a Christmas card, but it was just white slush. Cold, white slush.

He tugged the jacket tighter around his body as the wind blew with a little more force against his body. The leashes in his hands were tugged as the dogs he was walking urged him forward. Cursing under his breath, he walked at a faster pace to oblige the little monsters.

Damn yapping mongrels. He could already feel the migraine coming on. Fuck.

It was all going just-fucking-swimmingly until Princess the Poodle (Really? Where the hell was the originality in that? In McCoy's opinion, stupid people should not be responsible for other life forms. Not even plants.) decided to take a shit right on someone else's property.

"God dammit," McCoy swore. He had already gone through all of his plastic baggies. He wasn't a damn boy scout, he wasn't always prepared.

There was a definite reason why he was a doctor and not a vet.

"Hey!"

McCoy turned around with a sour expression deeply etched in his face. A curvy woman with short brunette curls stood outside on the porch of her house, looking expectantly at the poodle.

"You need a bag?" she asked, glancing up to meet McCoy's eyes.

"Huh?" He had been expected her to be one of those bitchy women would couldn't rest until they knew their lawns were shit-free. Breathing down his neck until he cleaned up the dog's business. Her helpful comment took him off-guard.

"A bag. Do you need one?" she asked again, an amused expression on her face.

"Yeah, that would be damn helpful," he responded with a curt nod.

She slipped back into the house before reappearing with a yellow plastic bag in her hand. Wordlessly, she handed it to him and he kneeled down to clean the mess. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her legs in close proximity.

When he stood back up, he was fully aware of how stupid he looked with a bag full of shit and a horde of annoying dogs literally hanging off of him. But she was still standing there and she was still smiling.

"I'm Nancy, by the way."

* * *

**To: j-money gmailcom**

**From: yahoocom**

**Subject: GREETINGS FROM THE CITY OF LIGHTS**

_Hey Old Man!_

_Or should I say _bonjour, vieil homme_? Yeah, you read right. I'm in France. Like I mentioned before, Spock's mom was from the countryside. Uhura's a girl, so naturally, it didn't take much to convince her to go along. Because really, what's better than winter in France? In Paris, the city of lights! (Click the link, Bones!)_

Rolling his eyes, McCoy opened the link provided within the e-mail and a new window popped up, revealing a picture of Jim and two other people.

There was snow on the ground and bright lights illuminating the city around them. They stood outside some non-descript building with French writing that McCoy couldn't understand scripted on the sign behind them. Jim had one of his huge, open mouthed smiles, complete with crinkled eyes, and McCoy wondered if he had been mid-laugh when the picture was taken. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his charcoal pea coat and a brightly colored, striped scarf hung loose around his neck.

McCoy grinned to himself for a moment, noting the ease and humor in Jim's eyes before he caught himself. With a grunt and a shake of his head, he turned his attentions to the others in the picture, assuming them to be Spock and Uhura.

Letting out a low whistle, he realized Jim hadn't been kidding when he said Uhura was gorgeous. She was an African woman with cheekbones that could cut glass. Black eyeliner wings decorated her eyes in an elegant fashion that matched the scarlet coat around her slender form. Long dark hair in loose curls spilled over her shoulders and she seemed to be leaning slightly into the other man, presumably Spock.

While the other two in the picture had bright smiles on their faces, Spock seemed almost stoic with a prematurely lined face. He couldn't have been much older than Jim, but his skin was taunt against his face in a very distinguished way. His mouth formed a thin line and his hands were folded behind his back. Like Uhura, his cheekbones were highly defined. Along with his slanted eyes, no doubt due to his father's heritage, his entire face seemed to sweep upwards. He wore a double-breasted pea coat similar to Jim's, however his was longer and a deep shade of royal blue.

McCoy glanced back at the e-mail to see what else Jim had written.

_Told you she was hot. ;)_

He blinked at the e-mail with disbelief and then wondered to himself why he was so surprised by Jim's antics. This was just basic Jim-behavior.

_We were outside the Chat Noir. Uhura wanted to go and apparently Spock is a cat-person, surprisingly enough. He won't admit to it, but Uhura swears it's true._

_Anyway, I started to get the impression that there was something going on between them (I'm his friend and I didn't even know he likes cats. So, yeah. Something was clearly up.). So! Like the perfect James-Bond-Spy that I am, I followed them! …Well, I mean, we were walking around the city in a group anyway, but still!_

_(I know you're probably laughing at my "stupidity" right now, but whatever, old man.)_

_We were walking around and visited the Eiffel Tower because honestly, you can't go to Paris and NOT see it. Srsly._

"Dammit, Jim. You're not a thirteen year old girl," McCoy muttered under his breath, staring with slight disgust at Jim's internet-speak.

_They were looking at the tower and I told them I had to take a leek. Uhura said I was crude and Spock said, "Indeed. I must agree with Miss Uhura." Because he's a prick. And whipped._

_So, I walked away and then when they thought I was actually gone, I set my master plan into action! *cue maniacal laughter* I snuck up behind in them in my most stealthiest spy-mode and managed to take this super-sweet picture. (Ahem. Click the link.)_

Dimly wondering why the hell he complied with Jim's crazy notions, McCoy idly opened another window and another picture met his view.

Jim must have been behind a plant or something because there was a green blur in the one corner. But beyond the blur, McCoy could see Spock and Uhura from behind. Though the picture had been taken from a few feet away, it was clear that two of his long, pale fingers connected lightly with two of her smaller, darker fingers as their hands hung between them. Their distance was nearly non-existent, though they kept their faces forward, not facing each other.

_Aren't they just too damn cute? I thought it was precious. 3 And I was right. Clearly, that is the most important part of this story. **I. Was right.**_

_Well, I don't really have much else to say. I kinda miss San Francisco, so I'll be back soon. Not sure when. I'll let you know? Haha, we'll see! Later Bones!_

_-James T. Kirk, badass extraordinaire_

_P.S. I don't foresee this ever happening, but don't be a bastard and tell Spock and Uhura that I took that picture. Spock would probably lecture about the merits of privacy and if you've ever been lectured by a half-Chinese, half-French logical man with a stick up his ass (He's my friend and I love him, but sometimes he makes me want to grab his shoulders and scream "Life's too short!"), then you know how awful it can be. And Uhura… she's sorta scary. Like in the beautiful and dangerous way. To be honest, I'm a little worried about what she would do if she found out I took that picture._

_Can you do that for me, Bones? Can you keep my secret?_

* * *

**To: j-money gmailcom**

**From: yahoocom**

**Subject: Change your e-mail address, you dumbass**

_Glad to see you're having fun. Spock and Uhura seem pretty decent and damn altruistic for putting up with you. And you weren't kidding. She really is a looker. So keep your damn paws off her. I know a nice girl when I see one and dammit, don't be your usual ass-self._

_France looks wonderful. The ex always wanted to go, but one thing led to another and we never got around to visiting. Thanks for the pictures. It's good to see you so happy. Not that you aren't usually happy, but hell, you know what I mean._

_And yes, I'll keep your secret. I think it's damn stupid, but you seem rather resistant. Although, it might be pretty amusing to see Uhura whoop your sorry ass._

_Well, nothing much is happening here. I finally called Joanna. Oh God, Jim. You should meet her sometime. She's perfect. And beautiful. She's got the McCoy charm and, I swear, I'm going to have to chase the boys off with a shotgun in just a few years. And she's smart. She's so smart, already one of the top in her class. She and I talk every Thursday night after her tap dance lessons. She calls me sometimes because she says it makes her feel important._

_Chapel's been asking about you. She wants to know you're coming back. I think she misses you. I have to admit, it's been pretty damn quiet without you here. Talk to you later, kid._

_-Bones_

_P.S. I met a woman named Nancy. Normally, I wouldn't say anything, but I like her. She might be around for a while and I figure you'd want to know. We've been on a few dates so far, but nothing too serious. She's a high school teacher. Teaches English, actually. I think you'd like her._

Highlight and delete. Try again.

**To: j-money **

**From: yahoocom**

**Subject: Change your e-mail address, you dumbass**

_Glad to see you're having fun. Thanks for the pictures. Don't worry, I won't say a word about your "spy" work._

_Well, nothing much is happening here. I finally called Joanna. She and I talk every Thursday night after her tap dance lessons. Otherwise, nothing new in my life. We don't all get to travel to France at the drop of a hat._

_Talk to you later, kid._

_-McCoy_

_P.S. I met a woman named Nancy. We haven't sleep together yet, so get your filthy mind out of the gutter. And it's none of your damn business anyway._

Eh, it wasn't perfect, but it was better. He hit "send" and sat in front of his glowing computer screen for a few minutes, wondering why he felt so disconnected from everything in the world. With a sigh, he lifted himself from his chair and slumped on to his bed.

Ah, sleep.

* * *

"Tap dance is so much fun, Daddy!"

Joanna's bubbly voice filled his ear, causing him to smile softly as he looked down at the framed picture of her that he held in his hand.

"I'm glad to hear it. Lindsey's in that class with you, right?" he asked, remembering that she mentioned something about her best friend last week.

"Uh-huh," she agreed. McCoy could imagine her nodding as she spoke, her brown pigtails bobbing around her round face. "The teacher says we might get a duet in our recital next month if we keep practicin'."

"Well, then you better practice," he answered with all the excitement of a proud father.

"That's what Mommy says!" Joanna squealed cheerfully into the phone. She giggled for a moment before sobering up and adopting a more serious tone. "Are you gonna be able to see my recital?"

"Oh, baby," McCoy started, feeling his heart break within his chest. "I don't know."

"It's alright," she said bravely. There was a silence and McCoy wondered if maybe she was chewing her bottom lip like she used to do when she was younger. "Maybe Mommy will videotape it? And then I can mail it to you?" she suggested hopefully.

"How 'bout you save it and then the next time I see you, we watch it together?" McCoy offered, trying to give her the best that he could from hundreds of miles away.

"I like that idea," she approved, a smile clearly evident in her voice. "You have the best ideas, Daddy."

"Thank you, baby," he said gently, still painfully aware of the guilt he felt too deeply.

"When you gonna visit next?" she inquired innocently.

"Oh," he stalled, drawing out the single syllable as he racked his mind for a suitable answer. "I don't know. I'll have to talk to your momma."

"I hope it's real soon. I miss you lots."

"I miss you, too," he promised before his voice trailed off into a whisper. "More than you could ever know."

In the distance, he could hear Jocelyn's voice call out.

"Joanna-monster, it's bedtime! Tell your father you have to go."

"'Kay, Mommy!" Joanna answered, accidentally yelling into the phone, causing McCoy to cringe slightly. Then she addressed her father once more. "Mommy wants me to go to sleep now. Can I stay up a little longer and talk to you?"

If he had been there in person, he was sure he would be unable to give in to her pouty face. But he wasn't there. He couldn't see her. And so he managed to say no.

"Mind your momma," he stated regretfully. "Good night, doll. I love you."

"I love you, too, Daddy," she answered sweetly.

"Hey, let me talk to your momma," he said quickly, before Joanna turned off the phone.

There was a rustling noise and then silence. A breath on the other end.

"What?"

Ah, there was the woman he knew and loved so fucking dearly. Bitch.

"Joss," he began quietly, using his old nickname for her in the hopes to offset her anger. There would be no good in upsetting her.

"Leonard, don't," she pleaded with a hard edge to her voice.

"Joss, you have to let me see her," McCoy insisted. "She's my daughter. I love her more than anyone in the world."

"I know. Trust me, I know," she practically yelled back into the phone before her voice broke off. A pause settled between them before she spoke again in a much quieter voice. "Look, we'll talk about this later. I need to get Joanna to bed."

There was a click and the connection was over before he even had a chance to respond.

* * *

Ripped from his deep sleep, McCoy sat straight up in bed as he heard his phone start to ring on his desk. Bleary-eyed, he tried to get out of bed. Tangled up in sheets, he fell to the ground and just stayed there as he grabbed his phone.

"Bones!" came the impossibly chipper voice on the other end.

"Dammit, Jim!" McCoy swore, falling onto his back on the floor and glancing at the nearby clock. "It's four in the morning here. You fucking woke me up."

"Huh," Jim responded with obviously fake confusion. "It's ten in the morning here in France."

McCoy growled under his breath and draped a heavy arm over his eyes. "You're like a fucking genius, aren't you? I'm sure you were perfectly aware of the time difference when you called."

"I figured you'd be more willing to answer my questions if you were half-asleep and not entirely aware of what you were saying," Jim answered matter-of-factly. McCoy could picture that smug look that seemed to perpetually decorate the younger man's face.

"Bastard," he muttered.

"Even you admitted that I was a genius," Jim pointed out, the smugness creeping into his voice.

"Bastard."

"Aw, there's the witty comeback I was waiting for," he answered, dripping with saccharine endearment. Then his voice took on a much more business-like tone when he spoke again. "Anyway, I'm calling about that e-mail I received from you."

"What about it?" McCoy gruffed into the phone. It was his life, dammit. He never should have told Jim.

"Nancy," Jim stated simply as though McCoy was an idiot for asking.

McCoy sighed and figured that the sooner he answered Jim's questions, the sooner he would able to go back to sleep before his twelve hour shift later in the day.

"I met her when I was walking those damn dogs. You know, I swear, I'm—"

"Going to kill that yipping mongrel," Jim finished in a bored tone, cutting off the beginning of McCoy's rant. "Yeah, yeah. Heard it all before."

McCoy was pretty sure Jim just rolled his eyes and if he hadn't been so tired, he would have chuckled. Seemed some of his mannerisms were starting to rub off on Jim.

"So, what's she like? Is she hot?" Jim pressed, teasingly, lecherously.

"She's very pretty, you little fucker," he grouched. He stared at the bed just a few feet over from where he rested on the floor. It seemed really far away.

"Is it serious?" Jim asked. If McCoy didn't know better, he'd think there was some sincerity in the younger man's tone.

"Not really," he shrugged. He began wondering how much energy it would require to get off of the floor and back on his mattress. Sure, it was lumpy, but it had to be better than the hard floor. He was too old for this shit.

"Do you want it to be?" Jim continued, curious.

"I don't know," McCoy muttered after a moment's thought.

"Still angry about Jocelyn?"

"No. Well, yeah," McCoy admitted after thinking about it. "But that doesn't bother me when I'm with Nancy."

"What is it then?"

McCoy stared out the small window, watching cars drive by in the night with their lights clearing the way ahead. He wondered how much longer until the sun would start to rise. Jim was silent on the end of line, further away than McCoy could imagine. He just waited patiently until McCoy was ready to speak.

"Just doesn't feel right," he finally said, almost surprised by his own response. "I don't know. I'm not good at this _feeling_ thing."

"Really?" Jim started, his voice saturated with blatant sarcasm. "Because you've always come across as such a people-person."

"Shut it, asshole," McCoy snapped as he finally started to free his legs from their sheeted prison.

On the other end, Jim chuckled softly, the sound low in his throat. McCoy was nearly back in his bed and ready to end this uncomfortable conversation when Jim spoke again.

"Hey, Bones?"

"What?" he groaned, leaning back onto his pillows and silently hating time differences.

"If it doesn't feel right, just…" Jim paused, "don't do it."

"What?" McCoy repeated, this time with confusion. His eyes were starting to flutter shut as sleepiness began to win against his efforts to stay awake.

"Just don't do it, okay?" Jim reiterated with a hint of frustration in his otherwise neutral tone.

"Whatever," McCoy mumbled, too tired to try to understand. "Don't see what it matters to you, but whatever."

"Night, Bones."

"Mornin', Jim."

Click. Dial tone. Silence. Sleep.

* * *

"I'm telling you, get a lawyer! You have rights to see your daughter," Nancy told him adamantly. Her plump cheeks were flushed with righteous indignation.

She slipped an arm through his and looked up at him expectantly.

"Trust me, I've thought of that," McCoy assured her as they rounded the corner to her house. "But I don't have enough money. Besides, judges always side with the mothers. I'm lettin' a little more time pass before I start forcing some changes."

She nodded understandingly, but pursed her lips momentarily before opening her mouth once more. "I just don't want you to let too much time pass."

"I know," he sighed wearily. "For now, I'm just happy that I get to talk to Joanna on a weekly basis." His voice gathered a little strength. "Sometimes she even calls on the weekend if she's finished her homework on time."

They walked up the porch steps in front of her house and stood before the door.

"That's really sweet," she responded quietly, clearly interpreting the pride and happiness in his voice.

He looked down at her with a slight grin. She was a little older than him, with little laugh lines around her eyes, but she had a youthful smile and an indomitable spirit. He reached a hand out to stroke her short, soft curls.

"I learned that it's better to appreciate the little victories," he told her with all the charm his momma taught him back in Georgia.

"Oh, Doctor McCoy, you are pulling my leg," she laughed. She swatted at him lightly with a sparkle in her eye. "I seriously doubt that you have ever believed that in your life. It's too optimistic."

"Calling me grouchy?" he answered in mock offense.

"Well, I'm only telling the truth," she answered demurely as the distance between them closed.

The night air pressed around them as her lips moved gently against his. His hands tightened on her hips, pulling her flush against her body. Her hands slid up his shoulders, neck, to rest in his hair.

They pulled away after a few moments and she smiled coyly at him, twirling his short strands between her fingers. She moved in closer, her lips trailing across his cheek. He shut his eyes and leaned into her touch.

"Do you want to come in for the night? Get your mind off your problems?" she suggested, lips brushing against his clean-shaven cheek.

Something cold struck his core and he pulled away slightly from her touch. She looked at him with confusion, but he smiled regretfully at her.

"Actually, I have work in the morning," he lied, internally hating himself and wondering why the hell he was refusing sex with a beautiful woman.

"Oh, I understand," she answered in a tone that suggested that, indeed, she _did_ understand. She gave a half-hearted smile and stroked his hair a final time before letting her hands slip back to her sides. She pressed a chaste kiss on his lips which he returned, his stomach churning with guilt.

"Well, good night then."

"G'night, Nancy."

He walked down the steps, down the path to the main sidewalk. He heard her open the door, but he did not turn around to look at her again. For the rest of the short walk back to his apartment, he debated with himself about why he had done that. Why had he given up something that could have been really wonderful? And if he couldn't manage a night with her, how would things continue between them?

_Why?_

In the end, the only answer he could come up with was that she was too soft in all the wrong places.

* * *

_As always, I am very curious to know what you thought! Please review!_


	8. of Postit Notes and Yellow Highlighters

_Hello everyone! I'm so excited that you're all still reading. Thank you! You should all go hug yourselves. You deserve it! Anyway, I told you I'd try to get a chapter out to you before the week is out and I actually did! It's pretty long and there's plenty of Kirk/McCoy interaction to make up for the lack of it in the previous chapter. I hope you all enjoy. :)_

_**Notes**: This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. I'm not sure what sort of "verse" it is yet, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know! Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating. **Seriously, does anyone have an idea for what I should call this universe?**_

_**Disclaimer**: I own "Acting Professionally" and I really need to start reading it this weekend so I can write that paper that's due on it in two weeks. ...But I don't own Star Trek._

* * *

**To: **

**From: j-money**

**Subject: WONDERFUL NEWS!**

_I'll be in San Francisco! 3 days!_

_-James T. Kirk, badass extraordinaire_

* * *

**To: j-money**

**From: **

**Subject: You know, it actually pains me to type your e-mail address.**

_Dammit Jim,_

_I know. I've known for the past week because you keep e-mailing me. And texting me. And calling the hospital (By the way, the Dean of Medicine talked to me about the other day. You really need to stop fucking doing that.). And calling me at fucking 4 in the morning to inform me! I swear to God, Jim, you're like a damn puppy or something._

_-McCoy_

_P.S. I don't know how it can't bother you that your signature is longer than your actual message._

* * *

**To: **

**From: j-money**

**Subject: I'm sticking with j-money. Deal with it.**

_If I were a puppy, I'd be a golden retriever._

_-James T. Kirk, badass extraordinaire_

_P.S. I can't understand how it bothers you, Crankypants._

_(Two and a half days! You know you missed me.)_

* * *

February rolled around without much change. Weekly and sometimes twice weekly calls with Joanna. Idiots at the hospital. Chapel still gushing over the ballet book McCoy had given her for Christmas. More idiots at the hospital.

The only difference was that McCoy took a new route when walking the dogs so that he didn't run across Nancy anymore.

She had been understanding and seemingly okay with his lame-ass excuse that he wasn't ready for a committed relationship. McCoy knew she was mature enough to get over any sorts of childish grudges she might be harboring (Unlike some _other_ woman he knew…).

But still. There was still some guilt and too much confusion over the whole situation that he just wanted to avoid the whole thing. Just ignore it, pretend it never happened, and walk away from the whole memory. McCoy was getting pretty good at that whole damn process.

The new route took an extra fifteen minutes, which meant nine hundred seconds more of yipping and barking and peeing on every. Fucking. Hydrant. But, the pluses out-weighted the cons this time.

* * *

"I'm sick."

There was no hello, no preamble. Nothing. Yet, McCoy would have known who it was even without the caller id.

"Are you in San Francisco yet?"

"Yeah."

"Come on over."

* * *

He expected to hear someone racing up the stairs (The elevator hadn't been working for the past few weeks and the landlord had better things to do, apparently. Jackass.), but he heard no hurried steps or stomps. Instead, there was just a half hour of silence outside the door with the occasional sound of the vacuum in Mrs. Whatsername's apartment across the hall.

Then finally, a slow knock resounded through his tiny studio three times before it trailed off, the knuckles running down the length before, McCoy assumed, falling back to the owner's side. He opened the door to find Jim leaning his forehead against the wall beside his doorway.

When the door opened, Jim rotated his head against the wall so that he was still supported by it but could face McCoy more clearly. His face was clearly flushed with a fever and the light in his sunken eyes seemed a bit dimmer than usual as though the shine had lost its fervor. Even his hair seemed a bit droopier than normal.

McCoy wordlessly moved away from the entrance to let Jim pass by. The younger man walked slow as molasses, shuffling his feet against the floor as he walked in with a faint glare on his face. McCoy noticed that he wore loose pajama pants and a oversized tee shirt in an effort to stay comfortable.

"Why did I have to come here?" he asked with annoyance, his voice sounding congested.

"Here is where my medic bag is," McCoy answered, gesturing to the bag laying on the floor near his desk that he had gotten out of the closet when he first received Jim's phone call.

"Why couldn't you bring it to the hotel?" Jim exclaimed with indignation, staring at the bag with a bit of resentment. He glanced back at McCoy, waiting for the answer.

McCoy shrugged.

"It's heavy."

"You're lazy."

McCoy shrugged again, this time allowing his lips to turn upwards in amusement. He made no comment and instead slid an arm around Jim's lowered shoulders to steer him towards the old worn couch. Jim eased his way onto the couch, shucking off his sneakers and curling up onto the cushions like a child.

Though his eyes shut immediately upon resting against the arm of the couch, he readjusted his head to give McCoy a better angle to feel his forehead. McCoy brushed the hair away from his face to get a better view of Jim's flushed skin and when he pressed the back of his hand to the pale expanse now exposed to him, it nearly burned to the touch.

"Interesting," Jim commented with a smirk, his eyes shut tight.

"What do you mean?" McCoy questioned, the back of his hand still pressed to Jim's forehead.

"You take temperatures like a good ol' fashioned country doctor," he teased with an overly thick accent drawling out his words.

McCoy frowned and pulled a thermometer out of the front pocket of his bag and poked Jim in the arm with it until he opened his eyes.

"You know, this doesn't have to go in your mouth," McCoy threatened with a venom-sweet smile etched across his stubble-covered face.

Jim's eyes widened slightly before the blue rolled in its sockets and he gave a half-hearted smile. Opening his mouth wide, he waited for McCoy to place the thermometer under his tongue.

"Well, I guess we're all about to see if you can manage to keep your mouth shut for a total of thirty seconds," McCoy joked sardonically.

Jim made a mock laughing face before his features fell back into a silence that clearly read "you're the only one who thinks you're funny." Which was only made more amusing by the thermometer still hanging between his pink lips.

Finally the thermometer beeped and McCoy was surprised to see that it read 102.3. He glanced back at Jim who looked on with vague interest about his temperature.

"Looks like you weren't kidding," McCoy said, flashing him the numbers. Jim shrugged and settled himself more firmly into the couch cushions.

"Told you I was sick," he answered quietly, his voice muffled by the couch arm.

"What are your symptoms?" McCoy asked as he started to fish around in his bag to see what he had that might help Jim feel better.

"I'm about ninety percent sure that my head is about to split in, oh say, three or four pieces, my body hurts like a bitch and every joint just aches. My muscles hurt and I didn't even do anything all that strenuous lately. And my throat hurts. And just in general, everything feels sick," Jim listed, pointing to various afflicted areas of his body as he moaned on the couch.

McCoy said nothing and merely nodded, his eyes unfocused as he stared at Jim's bent knee and wondered what Jim might be suffering from.

"Well," he finally said, moving his eyes back up to Jim's tired countenance, "sorry that it's nothing more interesting, but it sounds like maybe the flu. I can't tell you much else without taking any tests."

Jim only groaned and waved away the suggestion as he pulled the pillow out from under his back and rested it under his head.

"I can give you some penicillin if you want. See if that elevates any of your symptoms," McCoy offered, pulling out a spare bottle from his bag.

"Can't," Jim refused, eyeing the bottle carefully from a safe distance. "I'm allergic."

McCoy looked at the younger man with a touch of surprise.

"You're allergic to penicillin?" he questioned, just to make sure. Anti-biotic allergies weren't unheard of, but they sure made things a hell of a lot more difficult. McCoy could only imagine how tough it must have been for Jim's mother to get him fixed up as a kid when he was sick. "How about cephalosporins?"

"Yep," Jim nodded with a wince as he pressed his fingers lightly against his one exposed temple.

"Monobactums? Carbapenems?" McCoy ticked off each one on his fingers.

"Yep and yep," Jim said, making a popping sound on the last _p_. "They make me itchy, my hands swell, and my tongue gets numb. Makes me feel like I'm leaking or something."

"Is there anything you're not allergic to?" McCoy pondered, half out of concern for his friend and half out of his natural medical curiosity.

"Pain relievers," Jim answered with a grin. Then he paused with a thoughtful expression on his face before the smile returned with a hint of playfulness. "And chicken soup."

"Yeah, don't strain yourself," McCoy answered with a fake put-on voice, rolling his eyes with amusement. "I get the hint."

"You'll really make it for me?" Jim's somewhat incredulous voice followed his as he walked into the small kitchen area and pulled a can of soup out of the narrow cabinet above the tiny table.

"May as well," he shrugged, looking through the doors near the sink for a can opener. "You allergic to any foods?"

"Watermelon. And pork," Jim answered with a bit of a laugh in his voice, clearly knowing how atypical his answer sounded.

"Pork?" McCoy repeated, actually looking up from the can opener in his hand to stare at Jim in incredulity. "Who the fuck is allergic to pork? You Jewish or something?"

"Nah," Jim said, shaking his head, his voice thick with sickness. "I'm just legitimately allergic to pork."

"You're a medical mess, aren't you, Jim?" McCoy asked, shaking his head slowly as a small smile broke across his face without his noticing.

"And proud of it," Jim beamed as brightly as he could with a high fever. Then his eyes fluttered a few more times before finally shutting.

McCoy continued to shake his head while he put a pot on the miniature stove and set it to boil. While waiting for the soup to get ready, he dug out a plastic container from under his bed. He pulled out some fresh sheets and began to strip his bed of the dirty cloth. Jim looked over as McCoy flung the pillowcase into the hamper next to the bed near the couch.

"New sheets? For moi?" he peaked, looking up from the edge of the couch with interest.

McCoy shrugged and started tucking the corners of the sheets around the mattress to make sure the elastic wouldn't snap up.

"Not really medically relevant to making you feel better, but it's more comfortable," he explained. "And apparently that's all I can do for you today since you're a fucking walking disaster waiting to die from an anti-biotic overdose."

"Thanks, Bones," Jim responded, completely ignoring the somewhat crabby tone laced throughout McCoy's words.

McCoy grunted, a little uncomfortable with Jim's genuine appreciation, and shoved a pillow into its new pillowcase with a bit more force than necessary. Throwing the pillows and blankets onto the bed without any careful finesse, he took a few steps back over to the kitchen area and found that the water was boiling enough to add the soup.

He poured the contents of the can into the hot water and signaled to Jim that it was nearly ready. Jim understood the strange one-armed gesture and gingerly lifted his aching body over to the small table and promptly plopped down, lacking any and all grace.

McCoy handed Jim the hot soup and a spoon and watched in silence as Jim began to eat the instant chicken noodle soup. He noticed with faint amusement that Jim was quick to eat the chicken bits first and he almost gave a little laugh when he saw the look of sheer and utter contentment on Jim's face as soon as the warm liquid soothed his aching throat.

"Weirdo," Jim commented with a ghost of a smile as he swallowed another spoonful of noodles.

"What?" McCoy asked, crossing the room to occupy the vacated couch.

"Staring at me like that," he continued, not looking away from his soup. "I guess you take such a personal interest in all of your patients."

"You can always leave," McCoy threatened without any real promise in his tone.

Jim didn't even respond, but McCoy watched his broad shoulders shake with silent laughter. The next few minutes passed in silence as McCoy continued to idly watch Jim (only because there was nothing else to do and it would have be rude to turn on the television if Jim had a headache) until a clatter of metal against the ceramic of the bowl indicated to McCoy that Jim had finished. He rose from his seat to take the bowl away from Jim, but Jim held up a hand in anticipation and stood up to wash the bowl in the sink.

While Jim rinsed off the bowl and the spoon, McCoy walked over to the window and lowered the shades. Even though the sun had set and the city was shadowed in night's darkness, the street lights and car lights would be glaring against the window and would probably irritate Jim's headache.

"Before I forget, I got you something."

McCoy turned around to see Jim pulling something out of his large pajama pants pocket. In his outstretched hand, he held out a balled up shapeless mass of fabric. Taking it from his hand, McCoy unraveled the mass and extended it to its full length recognizing it as a long scarf similar to the scarf Jim had worn in the picture he had sent from France.

"Uhura knitted one for me, too. It was my Christmas gift. And she knitted one for you, too, since apparently I mention you enough that she thought you deserved one," Jim was rambling a bit, his hands fluttering around his body as though he were unsure what to do. Then he smirked a little with a warm look in his tired eyes. "She said something about how people who spend time with me need a little extra sympathy in their lives."

McCoy gruffed a laugh, fingering the scarf's soft fabric between his fingers.

"I need to meet this girl," he half-joked, poking lightly at Jim's over-inflated ego. Then his voice took on a slightly more serious and heartfelt tone as he said, "Thanks for passing the gift along."

Jim looked a bit more relaxed and managed one of his easy smiles that met his eyes as he nodded.

The two men stood there while McCoy examined the handiwork of the knitting (it reminded him so much of the blankets Gram used to crochet for him) and Jim stood with his dancing hands flitting around again.

"I'll tell her you said thanks," he promised, pounding his fists together idly. "They're really nice scarves. Nice and warm. Mine's in orangey colors. Reds and yellows. Yours is in blues and greens."

McCoy looked up with an amused grin at the pale, sickly, and uncomfortable man before him.

"Good colors. I like it," he assured Jim, holding it up and gesturing it to him. His grin grew as he watched the relief wash over Jim.

Heading over to the closet to put the scarf away, he rubbed his fingers along the tied-off fringe before shutting the narrow door. He heard shuffling behind him and turned to see Jim collapsing into the bed. There was a moment of stillness as Jim seemed to hug the mattress before he shifted around and pulled the blankets haphazardly over his body. He squirmed around a bit more in an effort to get more comfortable before finally laying to rest.

Satisfied that Jim was finally going to get the sleep that he needed, McCoy walked over to his desk area and grabbed some of his books. He turned back around when he thought he felt Jim's eyes on his back. Sure enough when he turned around, Jim was watching him with tired eyes.

"You don't use any aftershave or cologne or anything?"

"What?" McCoy asked, blinking in surprise as Jim caught him off-guard. "No. Why the hell are you asking?"

"No real reason," Jim yawned, snuggling further into the bed. "Your sheets just smell exactly like you do. I always thought it was aftershave or something, not just laundry detergent."

McCoy just shook his head.

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Never," Jim assured him with a lazy smile before letting it slip off his face. His eyes slid shut once more, his long and dark eyelashes resting gently against the tops of his unusually color-less cheeks. His lips parted softly as his breath came out in slower and more even puffs of warm exhalations until his entire face seemed to smooth out in sleep.

McCoy walked over to the bed to lay his hand against Jim's forehead once more, just to double check the heat of his skin. He was careful not to let his hand rest there any longer than necessary, although he wasn't really sure why he had to monitor his own behavior. But he did pretend not to notice when his fingers trailed lightly down Jim's cheek before finally falling back to his side.

With a last glance at Jim's slowly rising and falling chest, he grabbed his books, glasses, and a few pens and highlighters before heading over to the couch. He turned out all the lights except for the small lamp beside the threadbare couch and, as he slid on his glasses, opened one of the books to an essay about different surgical techniques.

The tiny room seemed almost alive with the faint breathing and constant presence of the warm body just a few feet away from McCoy. He focused on the words on the page in front of him, but even his deepest state of concentration could ignore the soft sounds of Jim's breath. Surprisingly enough, he found that it did not bother him in the slightest.

* * *

Hours later and McCoy had found himself highlighting through essay after essay and was actually impressed with himself. He had not been able to get this much work accomplished by himself in more time than he could remember. For the first time in over a year, he was able to actually concentrate on text without suddenly remembering something he needed to do or starting to drift away into the deep recess of his mind that ever so often reared its head as though to remind McCoy that it still existed. Instead, the time passed by with unexplained speed until it was much later in the night and Jim began to stir in his sleep.

McCoy glanced at the slightly moving body as Jim slowly woke up from his nap.

_His sleep schedule is going to get screwed up_, McCoy noted as he began to fall back into doctor-mode as his patient woke up.

His form still mostly obscured by thick fabric, Jim hoisted himself up a bit on the bed and propped up his pillows to rest back against. He looked over to see McCoy keeping an eye on him and smiled sleepily.

"Nice nap?" McCoy asked, wondering how long he should wait before taking Jim's temperature again.

"Yeah. I'm actually starting to feel a little better," Jim commented, stretching out his arms a little and yawning.

"You've probably only got a day or two more of that sickness and then everything should start to feel back to normal," McCoy instructed. "You might have a bit of a cough for a while, but otherwise you'll be fine."

"Thanks, Doc," Jim nodded. He paused and pulled back the shades to look out the window for a moment, watching as a few cars drove by in quick procession. He allowed the silence to wash over them for a full minute before letting the shades fall back to their previous position and turning to face McCoy again.

"How are things with Nancy?" he asked as though the thought hadn't just popped into his head.

"Over," McCoy said shortly, leafing through another chapter and wondering just how well he'd be able to comprehend the material now that Jim was awake and talking to him.

"What happened?" he questioned with curiosity inflecting his every tone, just as McCoy knew it would.

"None of your business," he answered breezily without looking up. "Things with her are just done.

"Of course it's my business," Jim stated, somewhat affronted. McCoy could hear him cross his arms across the darkness of the room. "We're friends."

Something about the way he stressed it like a lifeline made McCoy sigh and look up from his work. He stared at Jim barely illuminated from the lamp and the subtle light still shining in from the city street below. His face was cast in a multitude of light and shadow, his features softer and his hair more silver than gold. With another sigh and another moment to collect his thoughts, McCoy finally spoke again.

"She just… wasn't right. There was something wrong," he answered vaguely. Although, honestly, it was the best answer he could come up with.

"What? Was she a monster in disguise or something?" Jim prodded, clearly unsatisfied with McCoy's answer.

"No, she was a perfectly lovely lady," McCoy snapped for reasons unknown to even him. He was sick of Jim pushing all the damn time. "I just didn't want to waste the poor girl's time on a relationship that I knew wouldn't last." He glared at Jim with a bit of a reproachful expression. "It's called being considerate. Something you wouldn't know about."

Not ever someone to miss the slightest nuance in McCoy's face or inflection, Jim understood not to press McCoy for more answers. When he spoke again, his voice was slightly higher and much happier than it had seemed before.

"_Being considerate? Perfectly lovely lady_?" he repeated, eyeing McCoy with glee and teasing alternating in those blue eyes that still managed to shine in the relative darkness. "Your Southern charm is charming."

McCoy snorted and looked away from those crystalline eyes.

"I see you're not too sick to be redundant and annoying."

"Never for you," Jim replied in that sickly sweet voice. Sure enough when McCoy glared at him, Jim did nothing except bat his eyes infuriatingly and smile as innocently as a child.

_Innocent as a child, my ass_, McCoy thought to himself as he looked back at his text.

"Hey, Bones?" Jim asked, his voice losing its saccharine tone. "Can I take a shower or something? I feel all clammy."

McCoy didn't answer, but instead stood up from his spot on the couch to walk into the tiny bathroom. The leaking sink had some drawer space underneath it where McCoy kept towels and washcloths. He handed them to Jim, who had followed him to the doorway.

"Thanks," Jim smiled, his face very pale with the exertion of standing up. He started to make his way into the bathroom as soon as McCoy walked out.

"Hold on a minute," McCoy warned, waiting until Jim turned around. "Don't you need clothes?"

Jim shrugged and tugged on the hem of his gray shirt, wordlessly indicating that he would just wear the same clothes.

McCoy shook his head and rooted through a drawer in his dresser before pulling out a pair of black sweatpants and an old blue tee shirt.

"Take these," he said as he handed them to Jim. "You're a little bigger than me, but I'm taller so it should work out alright."

"Says who that I'm bigger?" Jim asked affronted, his voice tainted with a bit of vanity. "I'm sick. You need to be nice to me."

McCoy gave him a stoic look and then headed back to the couch to keep working. Jim huffed a little childishly behind him before turning to shut the door. Before he went into the shower, he looked curiously over McCoy's shoulder at the books.

"What are you doing?" he asked, shifting the clothes under his arm between his elbow and his waist.

"What the hell does it look like I'm doing? I'm studying some medical texts," McCoy answered, knowing that Jim would have come up with some sort of inane and damn idiotic answer.

"Well, yeah, I can see that. But what's with the yellow highlighter?" He pointed to it as though it had deeply offended him.

"Maybe you've never had to study before in your life and whoop-de-freakin'-doo for you if that's the case," McCoy answered with dead-pan sarcasm and deliberate slowness. "But for the rest of us mere mortals, we have to use studying techniques to remember every damn thing."

"But a yellow highlighter?" Jim continued, completely disregarding everything that McCoy had said, unfazed by the older man's glare. "Bones, that's so overdone. Overused. Cliché. Unoriginal. Uninspired. Banal."

He annunciated each word with a higher degree of exasperation, his entire body seemed to slump over tired and dejected by McCoy's personal choice.

"It's what I've used for years and I don't see any point in changing now," McCoy grumped, refusing to give in to Jim's jackassery.

"I'll bet you've been called a stubborn mule your entire life," Jim mused once he realized that McCoy was going to ignore him.

"Yes."

"And it would be hypocritical for me to call you that after I made a comment about how you shouldn't do things that are overdone, overused, and uninspired?"

"Don't forgot banal," McCoy offered helpfully, looking up with his most sarcastic grin.

Jim just shook his head and laughed a little, shifting the clothes so that they rested on his stomach. With a single chuckle, he walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Moments later, the water sounded and the door opened again as Jim poked his head out.

"By the way, nice glasses."

McCoy growled a little and looked around the edge of the couch to see Jim staring at him with suggestively raised eyebrows. The steam of the shower wafted through the door and Jim's smooth, bare shoulders was a sign that he had already started getting ready to wash.

"You look a bit like a sexy librarian."

There was another waggle of his eyebrows and then the door quickly snapped shut. McCoy supposed he should probably glare at the door or roll his eyes or do something that would label him a grouch. But he was too busy laughing to really make any other sort of gesture.

Full-belly laughter faded away to a contented smile that lulled him into a sense of complacency as he turned back to his journals. The steady sound of water hitting against the sides of the shower were muffled through the door into a strange melody to which he could not predict the end. It became white noise and he imagined he could feel the heated steam float through the air particles and surround him.

His weight on the couch was heavy, pulling him further against the warm cushions beneath him. The words before him were losing meaning and their sharp edges were becoming fuzzy just before his eyes. Giving in to the tiredness he had been fighting for a few hours, he finally allowed his eyes to shut gratefully.

Through the thick haze that seemed to settle over him, he could barely hear the shower end and the door open nearly half an hour later as he fell further and further into deep unconsciousness. He heard a door shut that sounded very far away and moments later, the highlighter was slowly pulled from his limp grasp and the weight of the books and journals on his lap disappeared. A thickness settled over him and he grew dimly aware that it was one of the blankets he had tossed on the end of the bed in case Jim needed them.

The last thing he was aware of before finally slipping away completely was the feel of fingers through his hair. He didn't understand, but it felt nice and it was too difficult to open his mouth and ask questions anyway.

* * *

When McCoy awoke in the morning, he was laying on the couch in an awkward angle, still swaddled in an afghan. Jim's snores just a few feet away were strangely comforting in a way that he really could not define.

He walked over to the side of the bed and turned off the alarm clock that was still singing some Linda Ronstadt from the radio station. Jim was unresponsive to the alarm and merely rolled over in his sleep, cocooning himself deeper within the comforter.

McCoy got ready for work, careful not to wake Jim who, after McCoy gently pressed a hand to his forehead, still felt as though he had a fever. At the last moment, he grabbed a pen and a Post-it from his desk drawer.

_Had to go to work. Feel free to any food in the apartment if you can find any. There's a spare key in the top drawer of the desk. It's yours if you want to go out._

Debating for a second about where to put it so that Jim would notice (the wall? the table? the headboard?) , he finally settled on smoothing it onto Jim's forehead.

With a final smirk to himself, he left the house for work, carefully shutting and locking the door behind him.

* * *

What McCoy did not know was that he started a new system of communication. For the remainder of Jim's stay at the tiny studio apartment, Post-its both serious and unnecessary were used to convey messages to each other.

_Went to get food because you ain't got jack shit up in this crib, yo._

_-J-Money_

_Hey, there was a call from the hospital. Work? Should I order food while you're gone?_

_-J_

_Where the hell did you go? I come home, see your post-it, but I don't see you. And yeah, get some food for yourself. I called the hospital back and it sounds like I'm going to be there for a while._

_-M_

(That one actually had to written on an index card because it was just a bit too long for a Post-it.)

_I woke up before you. Your forehead looked lonely._

(That one was on the wall next to the couch.)

_There once was an ugly barnacle and then everybody died. The end._

(_That_ one was on his forehead.)

_I have a young daughter. I know that you stole that from SpongeBob, you moron._

(Jim was actually in the apartment when McCoy wrote that one. He just really enjoyed slapping him hard in the back to make the Post-it stick to his shirt. "Ow, Bones! I swear, you're a sadist! Worst fucking bedside manner _ever_!")

Then one day nearly a week later, McCoy came home and there was an instant feeling of loss in the apartment. It didn't take him long for his hazel eyes to survey the room and find it completely devoid of Jim or any Post-its hanging in their usual places. Instead, there was a large piece of cardboard lying on his table from the pizza box they had ordered last night for dinner.

Tossing his work bag onto the couch, McCoy leaned over the table to read the sharpie-scrawled message barely legible across the brown surface.

_You know me. I've got restless leg syndrome or something. So I'm off to Montpelier, Vermont. I've never been there and I want some winter in my life. San Francisco has a lot of things that nowhere else in the world has, but it doesn't have snow. I want to make a snowman. I'll make his coal mouth into a frown and name it Bones. lol It'll be great. Anyway, thanks for letting me stay until I felt better._

_Give it a month. I'll be back. :)_

_-Jim_

_P.S. Left you a gift on your desk._

Honestly, McCoy wasn't surprised. Last night when he checked Jim's temperature and found it to be the average 98.6, he was hesitant to tell Jim because he knew Jim wouldn't want to stay in the same place for too much longer. The company around the apartment had been fun, albeit a little cramped.

Still, he couldn't avoid the disappointed notion in his stomach as he glanced at the bed Jim had made that morning for the first time since he had come to visit.

He headed over to the desk, curious about what Jim might have left. Instantly, he was met with a comical sight.

On the desk sat a value twelve-pack of highlighters from the nearby Stables. There were bright greens, blues, pinks, purples, and oranges and an empty space were McCoy assumed the yellow highlighters had sat before Jim took them away.

With a grin and a shake of his head, McCoy opened the desk drawer where he usually kept his highlighters and placed the pack inside. He looked within the contents of the desk and found that Jim had gotten rid of all his yellow highlighters save for one.

A lone highlighter rolled around between the packs of index cards, tape, scissors, and a box of paperclips with a Post-it note stuck to it, covered simply with familiar handwriting.

_Eventually, you gotta make a change._

* * *

_So what did you think? Please review! I'd love to know. I'll try to have the next chapter up soon. I'm so excited to write it. Planes, shopping trips, weddings, and possibly Joanna? Depending on how long the chapter is, Joanna might show up in the next chapter! Or maybe the chapter after that. We'll see... Please review!_


	9. of Sinatra and Beatles

_Happy New Year's, everyone! Hope the year is starting out great for all of you._

_Okay. I know this chapter is way overdue. And I am so very sorry about that. If any of you are in college, then I'm sure you understand. November to December was filled with final papers and finals. And when I finally got done all the studying (it paid off though! All A's and B's!), I came home for Christmas. The holidays are fun, but very time consuming. Those of you who can manage to do all your work and still write, I applaud you. I have yet to acquire that skill._

_Anyway, I just want you all to know: I am not abandoning this story. This story will be finished. To repeat, I am NOT abandoning this. I will try to update at least once more before I have to return to school._

_**Notes**: This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. I'm not sure what sort of "verse" it is yet, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know! Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating. _

_**Disclaimer**: Thanks to Santa, I own the first season of ST on DVD! I also own a Chekov action figure. He hangs out with my sister's Sulu figurine. However, I don't own the rights to Star Trek. I also do not own the rights to Frank Sinatra or the Beatles._

* * *

McCoy was smiling slightly, something he had been doing more often since his calls with Joanna had become more frequent. He listened as a chipper voice chatted away in his ear, the owner of the voice hundreds of miles away in a farmhouse in Georgia. The conversation was nearly over as he knew she would need to go to sleep soon and so he was not surprised when Joanna yawned loudly and told him she had to go.

"Mommy says I need lots of sleep this week!" Joanna said with sleepy excitement.

"And why is that, baby?" McCoy asked, fully expecting an answer that involved her dance classes or some test that she would have to take later on in the week.

"Oh," Joanna paused. An uneasy silence followed.

"Joanna?" McCoy prompted, leaning forward in his seat, ready for her response.

"Mommy said I'm not supposed to tell," Joanna whispered guiltily.

"She told you to lie to me?" McCoy asked, his eyebrow furrowing. That bitch.

"Well, she said that if I kept it a secret, she'd get me one of those big chocolate bars from the Whistle Stop Café," she finally revealed, a hint of worry in her thin voice.

McCoy debated with himself for a total of two seconds before he went against every good-father-instinct that he had.

"I'll give you two big chocolate bars if you tell me," he promised, wincing. He could not believe he was bribing his daughter. Even worse, he was stooping to his wife's level.

"Mommy might get mad at me," Joanna said slowly. But from her tone, McCoy knew she was tempted by the idea of twice as much chocolate.

"No one will be mad at you, sweetheart," McCoy promised, leaning even further in his seat.

"Well," she paused. McCoy pictured her sitting cross-legged, chewing her lip indecisively. Then she sighed heavily and McCoy knew she had relented. "Mommy's getting married on Saturday."

* * *

When it came to how McCoy felt about Jocelyn, he had always been as certain as the sun about his emotions. Infatuation, love, deep love, content (Well, shit, that was a long time ago, wasn't it?), contemptuous, that ugly gray feeling before anger, anger, more anger, so-fucking-mad-at-yourself-and-everyone-and-everything-around-you-that-all-you-can-do-is-drink anger. And of course, just plain pissed off. Oh, and bitter. Can't forget bitter.

But this was new to McCoy.

At first he thought he was angry. Because, well, wasn't he always angry when it came to her? But no, this was new. He felt lost and his facial muscles were tense from concentrating on how best to handle this situation. Was he mad at her for not telling him? Yeah. Sorta. Right?

But this was her new life. A life he wasn't part of anymore, thank the good Lord. She could do whatever the hell she wanted and he did. Not. Care. He wasn't mad, he wasn't annoyed, he wasn't even jealous. In the back of his mind, McCoy always assumed he'd be at least slightly jealous because isn't that how you are supposed to feel when the woman you couldn't make happy feels happy with someone else?

But instead, there was this sense that everything was moving on. He felt less guilty because now she couldn't blame him for all the unhappiness in her life anymore. As though the divorce papers and the cross-country move weren't enough of a hint, McCoy realized that things were finally over.

He wasn't pissed off. He wasn't even happy. He was just neutral and a little more relaxed.

Well, maybe he was a little pissed that she bribed their daughter so that Joanna would keep a secret from him. Then again, he bribed her to _tell_ the secret, so maybe he could let Jocelyn slide on that one.

"Bones?"

McCoy started from his position on the couch as the voice on the other end of the phone line spoke hesitantly into his ear.

"What?" he snapped, a little annoyed at having his thoughts interrupted.

"I asked how you felt about this whole Jocelyn-getting-married thing and then you stopped talking," Jim explained with the air of someone not sure if they should be confused or amused.

"Dammit, Jim, I'm trying to figure out how to explain it," McCoy muttered before taking a few more moments to mull over his response.

"Jim?"

"Yeah, Bones?"

"I don't care."

There was another silence, though this one came mostly from Jim's end of the phone.

"How can you not care?" he finally asked incredulously. "I mean, she was your wife! She kept information from you!"

McCoy could tell that on the other end of the line, Jim was probably gesticulating excitedly, scaring whoever had the misfortune of sitting near him at the ski lodge he told McCoy he was at. ("It's a nice shindig here, Bones. All log cabin-y and there's hot chocolate all the time.")

"We've both moved on," he answered with the sound of a shrug in his voice. "I don't really have anything else to say on the matter."

If he really thought a definitive tone of voice was going to stop Jim from responding and asking more questions, then he hadn't been paying attention for the past however many months.

"When's the wedding?" Jim prodded after a half-second's worth of silence.

"Saturday, you idiot," McCoy relented, shaking his head with disbelief. And if he wanted to be honest with himself, there was a bit of fondness, too.

"Right. Cool," Jim said on the other end of the line, clearly ignoring the insult. "I'm flying back to San Francisco. See you Thursday."

There was a click and then the conversation ended before McCoy could even ask why on God's green Earth he was coming back to San Francisco and what the hell did that have to do with the wedding?

But the other end of the line offered no answers and there was no blonde man laughingly telling him to wait and see.

Now he had nothing to do but wait until Thursday.

* * *

The clock could not tick fast enough, it seemed. Between every patient he saw, McCoy would glance at the clock and marvel at the fact that only a few spare minutes had slowly passed by. All the empty spaces of time when he wasn't dealing with some inane medical problem ("My little boy put a vitamin in his nose and now I can't get it out. Will he be alright?"), he would sort through papers and fill out all the basic charts he had been neglecting for the past few days.

A quarter 'til seven and he still had seen no sign of Jim. Granted, he hadn't told him he was working, so he might just be hanging out in the apartment waiting for McCoy to return.

_Probably making a mess of things and looking through my medicine cabinet. Or else he saw something in a skirt through the window and went chasing after the poor lady like a dog._

McCoy leaned against the rounded edge of the semi-circle desk found in the receptionist area in his wing of the hospital. The receptionist, Joseph, handed him a small pile of papers, each detailing the patients who had passed through that day.

"Hello, Nurse," Joseph greeted cheerfully as a flash of uniform blue registered in McCoy's peripheral vision.

McCoy looked up to see Chapel walking towards them with a tired smile on her face. Her sneakers squeaked against the smooth tiles and she ran a half-hearted hand through her shining hair.

"Hello, gentleman," she greeted in return, glancing between the two men.

"Long day?" Joseph asked, sympathetically.

"You don't know the half of it," McCoy answered as Chapel nodded vigorously.

"You've seemed particularly antsy today," she noted to McCoy with a question in her gray eyes. Leaning over the slightly cluttered top of the desk, she picked up one of the many clipboards and began making a few notations with the attached pen.

McCoy tore his eyes away from the clock (Nine minutes 'til seven) to give Chapel a "look." She raised her eyebrows in response and turned away to read her clipboard. Like hell he was antsy. He was just ready for the day to be over. Perfectly natural to want the work day to end. Perfectly natural, indeed.

So as he held the papers in his hand, passing through the dog-eared sheets to find the patients he had dealt with during the day, he heard a slight commotion from down the hall. All three looked up, watching to see who or what was going to arrive at the mouth of the hallway.

It was Jim. Of course. He arrived almost with a literal bang as he strode into the reception area with a broad grin. Winking at once at McCoy, he then turned his attentions to Chapel. Taking the clipboard swiftly from her hands and placing it on the desk top, he gently grabbed her shoulders and spun her around once before bringing her hand to his lips and grazing a kiss against her knuckles.

"My dear, you look more radiant each time I see you," he said with practiced ease. With his free hand he tapped a random curl that had fallen from her bun while giving her a once over. "Curly, blue, and lovely you."

Chapel smiled with a shake of her head and carefully removed her hand from his grasp to pat him on his cheek. The smile turned to a smirk as she faced McCoy before picking her clipboard back up.

Jim had just finished introducing himself to Joseph with a hearty shake of his hand before spinning on the spot to stand in front of McCoy. There were wet spots on his gray hoodie and raindrops clung to his eyelashes. If McCoy were a poetic man, he would have thought the raindrops sparkled under the hospitals lights like stars in the deep blue of his eyes.

Like McCoy had done so many times before that day, Jim looked up at the clock to check the time.

"Your Thursday shifts end at seven, right?"

"You know, some states would classify that as stalking," McCoy answered dryly.

Jim snorted at the comment, but did not deny the claims much to Chapel's amusement. Nothing more was said between them as McCoy fished out the last few papers he needed and handed Joseph back the left over pages for the other doctors. The pair said good bye and headed towards the exit.

"Have a nice time, boys!"

McCoy looked over his shoulder to see Chapel with a deviously amused look on her face.

Dammit.

* * *

"I hate the rain."

McCoy rolled his eyes as they entered the lobby of his apartment building. Jim had been bitching the entire walk home from the hospital. ("Buy a car, Bones!" "Why don't you have a job where you can work from home?" "What if we get struck by lightning?" "This is not the type of wet I like!")

"Dammit, Jim! It's drizzling," he gruffed as they made their way of the few flights of stairs.

"But I don't like the rain!" was Jim's elaborate response.

"Really? I hadn't gotten that already," McCoy shot back, his tone heavy with sarcasm.

"I'm just saying," Jim trailed off indignantly. There was a brief silence as they rounded the corner to the next floor.

"Gotta admit though, I'm surprised," McCoy said, breaking the rare quiet that surrounded them.

"Why?" Jim questioned with clear curiosity prevalent above the thundering sound of his footsteps as he charged up a few stairs to be side-by-side with McCoy.

"I always thought you were one of those rain-loving people," McCoy shrugged, shifting to the side of the stairs closest to the railing so that Jim would have more room.

"You mean the type that says stuff like 'those who say sunshine brings happiness have never danced in the rain'?" Jim asked with a roll of his eyes worth of something McCoy would do.

"Yeah, them," he confirmed with a chuckle, not even asking how Jim knew that quote.

"Bullshit," Jim said with a tone of finality. "Rain is cold and wet and annoying. Cars don't work, socks get soaked and uncomfortable, mud gets everywhere, hair gets all frizzy." He ticked off each offending fact on his fingers, brandishing them in front of McCoy's amused face.

Jim saw the smirk on McCoy's face and started to grin a bit himself as they arrived on McCoy's floor.

"It's fucking bullshit," he continued in a more conversational tone. "Rain is only good when it freezes into snow." He leaned against the bland, striped wallpaper sloppily applied to the hallway wall beside McCoy's door.

"Yep," McCoy shook his head as he dug through his pockets for his keys. Jim waved him aside and pulled out his own key to unlock the apartment door. "Never would have expected a response like this.

"Well, I guess you learn something new every day," Jim spoke with his usual smoothness with a single eyebrow raised cockily. He pulled the door open for McCoy and made a grandeur gesture for him to enter.

McCoy's long fingers flicked on the lights as they both piled into the small apartment. Jim wasted no time in falling onto the couch and kicking off his shoes. Eager to get out of his wet clothing, he shrugged off the gray hoodie and tossed it over to McCoy who caught it and hung it on the hooks next to door alongside his own wet jacket.

His fingers trailed over the gray sleeve, still warm from Jim's body heat. The worn fabric smelled intensely of Jim's usual musk and the cool rain from outside. It was a surprisingly comforting scent.

With a shake of his head and a cough to reorient himself, he turned on the spot and took several steps away from the coats until he could no longer smell Jim's hoodie. Jim looked up at him expectantly while poking his hands through the couch cushions for the television remote.

"What's up, Bones?"

"So did you book a hotel room or are you crashing here?" he asked as he strode over to the end of the couch not occupied by Jim.

"Oh, I booked a hotel room," he answered without looking up as he dug deeper beneath the middle cushion. Suddenly, a smile spread across his face as his hand re-emerged with the remote in his grasp.

"Which one?"

"Holiday Inn," he said cheerfully as he flipped through the channels.

"The one on the other side of the city?" he questioned with an obvious note of incredulity. "Jim, if you don't like the rain, you're not going to want to make the walk over."

"Right you would be, Bones. However!" he exclaimed with a devilish look on his face. His eyes honest-to-God flashed with some sort of giddy mischief as he grinned evilly at McCoy.

"However what?" McCoy annunciated slowly, his eyes narrowing with deep suspicion.

"This particular Holiday Inn is located in Georgia." Jim's voice was so thick with pride that it was almost palpable.

"Dammit, Jim!" McCoy near-yelled, practically leaping up out of the seat.

"We're going to Georgia," Jim continued to say as though McCoy hadn't said (or rather, shouted) a word. He skipped through a few more channels before finally settling on some station with Bruce Willis. "Ooh, _Die Hard_. Excellent."

"Jim," McCoy started with a growl deep in his throat.

"You're going to that wedding," Jim shot back before McCoy could say another word. From the corner of his eyes, he peered out at McCoy with definite determination.

"No," McCoy refused, still standing beside the couch and glaring at his friend.

"The reception, at least," Jim bargained, his gaze going back and forth between the movie and McCoy.

"No."

"Okay, picture it," Jim started, shifting in his seat to concentrate solely on McCoy. He dropped the remote in his lap and extended his hands to create a picture frame with his fingers. "Your little daughter is going to be the flower girl. Picture how pretty she'll look."

"I'll see photos," he told him dryly without skipping a beat. He could feel one of his eyebrows inching higher and higher on his forehead, making a bid for freedom.

"Yes," Jim agreed with a fair shake of his head before his expression became toothy and reminded McCoy of a car salesman or game show host. "But you will never get a photo of your ex's face when she sees you show up. That's something you have to be there to see. Think about it.

There was a pause in which the two men stared at each other. One with a grin made up of two parts victory and one part smug, the other with a slow smile of satisfaction spreading across his face.

"Dammit, Jim," McCoy muttered as he slid back onto the couch, his voice lacking the same fervor from earlier.

Understanding that, with those two words, he had won, Jim rubbed his hands together with approval.

"Excellent! Pack your bags tonight, Bones," he advised with a practiced air of one who traveled too often. "Tickets are for noon tomorrow. We'll get to the airport by ten."

McCoy nodded and got off the couch to find his old suitcase somewhere in the mess of his closet. He grumbled a bit to himself when he found it on the floor of the closet under all of his shoes.

"So," Jim continued offhandedly, his eyes trained on the television, "what's for dinner?"

The resounding _smack_ as the flying sneaker hit Jim in the leg was particularly gratifying.

* * *

The rain from yesterday had not ended and little droplets continued to hail down. The raindrops glided down the cab windows and McCoy tried the old childhood game of watching different drops race each other across the glass in an effort to calm himself down.

Nope. Didn't work. His heart was still racing.

"Jim, if we die up in that plane, I am going to kill you," he hissed, too paranoid about the upcoming flight to really understand how ludicrous his threat was.

"Not gonna die," Jim promised with his sunny smile that belied the rain outside.

The cab driver glanced at them curiously, but continued the drive in silence. McCoy attempted again to focus on the racing raindrops as his hands gripped the edge of the backseat

_That one is going to win. If the one on the bottom wins, I'll live through the plane ride._

The bottom one won the imaginary race. And somehow, that managed to slow his heart rate a slight amount.

* * *

The airport was too crowded. McCoy needed space to breath. But when Jim suggested going outside where there was more space, the thought of it suddenly seemed too open. They finally settled on an open-window area where they could watch the planes take off. Jim had suggested that it might calm him down to see plenty of other planes take flight without any problems. At first McCoy had rolled his eyes, but he had to admit that he was feeling much calmer than he had felt previously.

"We should probably head over to where we need to be," Jim advised, checking the time on the large clock on the wall behind them.

McCoy did not respond, but merely stood from his seat where he had been sitting with his elbows resting on his knees. Without taking his eyes off of the plane that was slowly making its way down its path before takeoff, he wrapped a shaking hand around the handle of his old, worn suitcase. The leather handle felt foreign against his clammy hand and he wondered, not for the first time that day, if it was too late to go back to his apartment.

Jim was watching him with a patient expression, his own bag in hand.

"You know, even if you don't want to go, I'm going. And I'll still go to the reception. Think of all the things I'll be able to say without you there to be my filter," he trailed off as his eyes took on a dreamy look with crafty smile coloring his face.

McCoy glared and marched off in the direction of their terminal. Behind him, he could hear Jim chuckling.

After they checked in their bags, it was about time for them to finally head onto the plane. The waiting room was slowly filtering out as more and more people boarded their flights. The room was marginally more open than it had been earlier that morning and Jim was taking advantage of his last few moments of space.

He spun around in a few circles, his arms outstretched around him like a child.

"Don't be an idiot," McCoy told him, fully aware that anything he said would do nothing to stop Jim from his mildly crazy antics.

"Still nervous, Bones?" he asked, bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet.

McCoy gave a half-shrug which seemed to convince Jim to cheer him up.

"You shouldn't be nervous," Jim reassured him. "Instead, do you know what you should do?"

"What?" McCoy responded without any real interest in hearing whatever cockamamie answer Jim might have.

"You should fly with me. Come fly with me, Bones."

"What?" he repeated, though this time he was genuinely unsure of what his friend was doing. He eyed him warily as Jim faked holding a microphone.

"Come fly with me, let's float down to Peru," he sang with what appeared to be his best Frank Sinatra impression. People around them looked over with expressions ranging between annoyance and amusement.

"Shut up, Jim," McCoy said as he grabbed his friend by the elbow and tried to pull him towards the terminal.

"In llama land, there's a one-man band and he'll toot his flute for you," Jim waggled his eyebrows suggestively as he sang the end of the line.

"I'm pretty sure that's not what Sinatra meant when he sang the song."

"Come on, fly with me! Let's take off in the blue!"

"You see all those people staring at you like you're an idiot? They're all right."

The pair continued singing and bickering the entire way onto the plane.

* * *

Somehow, the plane had managed to get into the air without any explosions. So far, so good.

Jim noticed that McCoy had stopped clutching the chair arms with a death grip and looked over at him with a broad smile.

"How are you feeling?" he asked in a low, comforting voice.

"I may throw up on you," McCoy warned.

Jim smirked and began rummaging through the pockets of his gray hoodie. The sudden movement sent a waft of his musk and rain towards McCoy who slowly breathed in the scent. After a few moments, he removed his hand from the cloth confines with an iPod in his fist. Humming something McCoy could not discern, he carefully unwrapped the ear buds from around the device.

One hand held the iPod, his thumb scrolling down various musical lists while the other hand offered an ear bud to McCoy.

"Wanna listen?"

McCoy took the ear piece, but only held it in his hand before asking "What music are you going to play?"

"The Beatles," Jim said, much to McCoy's surprise. Jim correctly interpreted the look on McCoy's face and began to explain. "I usually listen to music to make the flight go by faster. A couple of years ago, I found out that sometimes the people sitting next to me could hear the music, too. As much of an asshole I can be sometimes, I don't feel like pissing people off on the plane. So I listen to the Beatles."

"Why?" McCoy asked, placing the bud into his ear and waiting for the music to start.

"Because everyone likes the Beatles. I figured it would be a safe bet," he shrugged with a toothy smile that could charm the pants off a snake.

The two men fell into companionable silence as _I Feel Fine_ began to play in their ears. For the next hour or so, songs of various Beatles albums played and kept McCoy's attention away from his aerial surroundings.

The beginning strains of _Yesterday_ started before _Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club_ replaced it. McCoy looked at Jim as though he had committed a crime.

"How can you skip a classic like _Yesterday_?"

"No sad songs," Jim insisted, refusing to go back to _Yesterday_. "Only upbeat songs."

"Some of the best Beatles songs are the slower songs though," McCoy argued amiably even as Jim shook his head.

"Enjoy Sergeant Pepper, Bones."

He rolled his eyes, but did not open his mouth again to refuse. The song ended and several more continued in peace until they were in the middle of _I Want to Hold Your Hand_.

Suddenly, there was a slight movement in the plane and McCoy's eyes flew open and his hands clutched the armrests until his knuckles were white with his intensity. His breath was haggard and through the haze, he could barely hear Jim's deep voice try to tell him that it was alright, the plane just made a turn, everything was fine, it was natural.

And slowly, the gray that had seeped through the edges of his vision were fading away and he could suddenly see the back of the seat in front of him. He could feel the seat below him and everything was humming gently, normally. It was okay. The lights were a bit bright in his eyes and his heart still raced, though he could feel it begin to relax marginally.

"You okay? Are you okay?" Jim asked with concern. McCoy felt something tighten around his wrist and almost began hyperventilating until he realized Jim's fingers were wrapped around his wrists. McCoy focused on Jim's pointer and middle finger over his pulse like a doctor's with his thumb almost covering the nail on his middle finger.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine," McCoy breathed with a sigh. He took a few more deep breaths before he smiled wobbly at Jim.

Jim nodded and grinned, seemingly reassured. He handed the iPod over to McCoy.

"Go ahead, pick one of your sad songs. This is your freebie."

McCoy gave a short snort of shaky laughter and took the iPod from Jim's warm grasp. He scrolled down the seemingly endless playlist until he finally found what he was looking for.

_Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been,_

_Lives in a dream._

_Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door._

_Who is it for?_

Exhausted by the too-many bouts of fear in the short day, he fell asleep by the second verse. As he drifted off, he realized Jim had never removed his grasp around his wrist. His last conscious thought focused on the pads of Jim's fingers lightly tapping along to the song.

_Look at all the lonely people…_

_Where do they all come from?_

_All the lonely people…_

_Where do they all belong?_

* * *

_Was it worth the wait? I hope so._

_Thanks to everyone who hasn't given up on this story. You all are so wonderful._

_In my attempt to get this chapter out to you as soon as possible, I have not gone through this with a fine-tooth comb. Any mistakes that you find, please let me know!_


	10. of Daughters and Dancing

_I have returned! And as always, I want to apologize for how long it took me to get this chapter out to you guys. And as always, this is the part where I complain about college sucking up my entire life. I took a 20-credit semester/eight classes (which JUST ended) and I am proud to say that all my hard work (no free time, very rarely going out with friends, no writing, waking up early on Saturdays to study, etc) has paid off. I now have a 3.485 GPA. SUCK IT, COLLEGE._

_Okay, whining and bragging is over. And this chapter-baby is ready for you! Oh, and this chapter marks the "over one hundred pages in Microsoft Word" mark! Yay! lol_

_**Notes**: This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. I'm not sure what sort of "verse" it is yet, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know! Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating. _

_**Disclaimer**: I own pink hair dye (I'm actually letting the dye settle in my hair as I type this. The first time I have ever dyed my hair!), but not Star Trek or anything else you may recognize. I also want to make sure that you guys don't think I'm making fun of the songs incorporated into this chapter. I actually like both of the songs, but I thought given the context of the story, they were pretty amusing. So, if Bless the Broken Road is your favorite song or if it was the song you danced to at your own wedding, please don't think I'm making fun of you. It's more of a "making fun of Jocelyn" shtick._

* * *

It was a little after four in the afternoon by the time they finally left Atlanta's airport. McCoy was still feeling sluggish from his nap and from the crash after his adrenaline rush during the plane's landing. Other than the occasional concerned glance, Jim seemed perfectly content to blithely ignore McCoy's unusually quiet attitude. He continued to babble on and on about the most inane things possible, his voice level and excited as he bounced from subject to subject as the pair walked from the airport to the nearby car rental place.

McCoy seemed to walk on auto-pilot, barely registering as his feet rounded well-worn corners and took him past familiar buildings. The crowds were no denser than those in San Francisco, but he seemed unusually bothered by the multitudes of people knocking his elbows or brushing past his stiff arms.

Not really caring about much other than getting to a nice hotel room so he could sleep away the day, he allowed Jim to pick out the car they would rent. He didn't really know much about cars anyway. He knew how to change a tire and knew the basic makes, but otherwise cars meant very little to him. Unless it had organs that could be operated on, he wasn't too sure how it worked.

So, he walked around with Jim as Jim squinted and poked and prodded car after car. He asked the workers questions with a mechanical vocabulary McCoy could only blink at. He would listen to the workers' answers with a deeply concentrated face and then lean back to examine the car. His long fingers would lightly stroke the clean-shaven skin of his chin as he tilted his head just so to the side until finally he shook his head with an attitude that clearly said, "Gentlemen, this is so painfully obviously not what I am looking for."

Then he would wink over at McCoy who could only respond with a bemused chuckle as they made their way over to the next prospect.

After an amusing twenty minutes, Jim eventually settled on some new model car with a foreign name and shiny silver paint.

Something young, flashy, and not at all modest. Of course. It was Jim in mechanical form plus leather interior.

* * *

Before long, they drove past the "Welcome to Daisydale!" sign and McCoy felt his anxiety mount, though Jim ignored it whole-heartedly.

("Really? Who the fuck names a town Daisydale?"

"Trust me, I've been trying to figure that one out for about thirty years now.")

The two men found a hole in the wall sort of restaurant ("These are the best kind, Bones! Pinky swear!") and ate their hamburgers with a sort of fervor. McCoy had never realized how hungry his fear could make him.

Jim swirled his French fries around in the small heap of ketchup he had squeezed onto a few spare napkins as McCoy continued to glance out the window at their rented sports car. As perceptive as always, Jim noticed where McCoy's eyes stared.

"Admit it, you like it," Jim teased McCoy, talking around the mass of French fries in his mouth.

McCoy imagined them roaring (Literally roaring, the engine seemed to purr.) down the highway with the Georgia sun gleaming off the long hood before them.

He did like it.

* * *

"I will rock-paper-scissors you for the bed by the window," Jim announced in the elevator, holding a fist over the trolley carrying their suitcases.

"Or we can act mature and you can just ask me for it," McCoy replied snarkily.

There was a moment of silence as Jim refused to move his hand away. His blue eyes continued to stare at McCoy until he flipped a thumb out of his fist.

"Or we can thumb wrestle."

Somehow, the thumb wrestle turned into a massive battle in the elevator. When the doors opened on their floor, a small family of four waiting to get on the lift was privy to the sight of Jim jumped on McCoy's back and smacking the dark-haired man's head as McCoy tried to back up and smash the younger man against the wall.

They froze as they glanced up at the family.

"Um, hi."

* * *

"I so totally won that fight," Jim bragged as he fiddled with the key card to their room. He slid it through and opened the door.

The two men entered a modestly sized hotel room, complete with shitty comforters and ugly-ass pictures on the buttercream walls. Seriously, who picked the fabric for these places? The criminally colorblind?

He held the door open for McCoy who pushed the trolley in. Both of them stood near the entrance and glanced at each other. There was a beat during which they stood as still and alert as animals hunting prey before they both tore across the room and flung themselves into the bed nearer the window. McCoy threw an arm out to halt Jim's movements before landing on the bed first.

"No fair! You pushed me!" Jim cried from his spot on the hideous carpet where he had fallen. McCoy grinned, baring all his teeth in laughter.

"Ya five years old now? Gonna go tell on me?" he chuckled, kicking off his shoes and falling back against the pillow with his arms folded under his head.

He shut his eyes in comfort for a moment before a dark figure blocked out the yellow light through his eyelids. McCoy opened his eyes to see Jim standing beside the bed, leaning over his outstretched body.

"I dare you to lick the sheets," he half-ordered, his hands on his hips like he's the five year old McCoy accused him of being.

"Do you have any idea how disgusting that is?" he answered with a revolted look on his face.

"If you don't do it, I will steal your bed," Jim promised, not acknowledging McCoy's protest. His eyes brightened devilishly. "You have to piss eventually. And that is when I will make my move."

The threat was real, there was no denying it. All of a sudden, McCoy was struck by the sudden urge to pee, and he mentally cursed the hell out of his bladder.

With a final defiant glare at Jim, he shifted in the bed with a growl, lowered the comforter, and dragged his tongue against the cotton sheets. He lifted himself back up and tried not to gag at the idea of all the germs he just willingly let into his body.

"Ew! I can't believe you did that!" Jim roared, holding his sides and bent over with laughter.

"You're an ass," McCoy snapped, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"I have a fantastic ass," Jim stated as usual, strutting across the room with an exaggerated swagger in his hips. "That doesn't make me an ass."

"Shut the fuck up," he responded, forcibly pulling his gaze away from Jim bending over the suitcases.

The sound of a zipper permeated the air and a bit of shuffling could be heard. McCoy stood up from the bed to walk over to Jim, curious as to what he was doing.

"Want your toothbrush?" Jim asked impishly, brandishing an orange toothbrush like a sword.

McCoy tugged it out of his hands without a word and waited for Jim to hand him the toothbrush before walking into the tiny bathroom.

"So what are you wearing to the reception?" Jim questioned curiously, continuing to shift through McCoy's suitcase as though looking for the clothes.

"What the hell does it matter?" McCoy called over the sound of the water running.

"Well, if you wear blue or green or something, I don't want to wear the same color as you. That's too cutesy." He spoke with a look of disgust in his voice, causing McCoy to smirk at his reflection in the mirror in front of him.

"Fair enough," he responded before beginning to brush away the nasty memory of his tongue on those damn sheets.

"Your dress clothes aren't in the suitcase."

"Stop going through my shit," McCoy warned him through a mouthful of toothpaste goo.

As he spit into the sink and cleaned off his toothbrush, he saw Jim out of the corner of his eye standing in the open doorway.

"Tell me honestly that you are _not_ planning on wearing this."

McCoy turned to look at the clothes Jim held out to him. A pair of washed out jeans with the knees so worn out they looked white. A t-shirt with UNIVERSITY OF MISSISSIPPI written in his old school's colors.

"What's wrong with it?"

Jim might or might not have looked at him like he had gone insane. His mouth literally dropped open, and for a moment, McCoy wondered if he was going to throw the clothes at him and have a fit.

"It's a wedding reception! You have to look nice!" he shouted, gesticulating around the doorframe with McCoy's clothes shaking in his hands.

Pause.

"Why?"

"You want to look like a bum? No! You're supposed to look smoking hot so that Jocelyn realizes what she missed out on!"

McCoy chose to ignore the "smoking hot" part. Addressing that part of Jim's dialogue would probably make him feel as though he was in one of those poorly written sitcoms Jocelyn used to watch all the time. Fucking _Friends_.

"What?" He decided that was the most diplomatic of responses when Jim was staring at him like a crazy man.

"We're going shopping tomorrow!" Jim declared, throwing the clothes carelessly onto the floor. "That's final!" With a final glare at the discarded clothes, he spun on his heel and walked away.

"But—"

"Final!" Jim cut him off. He fell back on his own bed, the expression on his face clearly meant to change the subject. "So what do you want to do tonight?

"Let's just stay in tonight," McCoy said, reaching into his suitcase to pull out a pair of sweatpants.

"Why?" Jim asked, blinking in surprise. Both men glanced over at the bright red numbers staring out at them on the clock on the small table between their beds. 7:09.

"Just because," McCoy shrugged. He dropped his jeans into a pool around his feet, kicking them away from him and tugging the sweatpants on. He was acutely aware of Jim watching his movements. "I'm tired," he finally expanded, only somewhat lying.

"Oh," Jim perked up as a sudden realization struck him. "You're afraid you'll run into someone you know."

He stared at McCoy knowingly until the doctor could only sigh.

"Yeah, I guess. If they see me and Jocelyn finds out, she'll probably move the whole damn wedding," he said before adding bitterly, "Knowing her, she's already got that planned out just in case."

"Alright," Jim complied, nodding sagely. "We'll stay in." He shifted the pillows behind his body and leaned against the bed frame. His long fingers wrapped around the remote on the table next to the clock as he turned on the television and tried to find something to watch.

"You sure?" McCoy cautioned, standing like a fool with his pants still on the ground. "I mean, you can go out if you want."

"Nah," Jim shook his head. "I'd rather hang with you." He flashed a smile at McCoy, his pearly whites bright in their room.

McCoy watched him suspiciously for a few more moments before releasing the tension in his shoulders and kicking his jeans out of the way. He fell onto the bed he had fought for not that long ago, moving his own pillows to mirror Jim's.

"Thanks, Jim," he finally said after a few minutes passed by as they watched mindless commercials for Eggo waffles.

"Thank me after we get you some decent clothes," Jim snorted with amusement.

"No promises," McCoy smiled.

The two men glanced over at each other and grinned. _Even when the shit hits the fan this weekend_, McCoy thought, _tonight will be pretty good._

* * *

Jim dubbed himself a surgical shopper, in and out of the store as quickly as possible. They drove out to the nearest, nicest store ("Please let me pay. Trust me, it's not me being nice. It's the fact that I will be so fucking ashamed to be your friend if I am seen at the reception with you in ratty clothing.") and Jim was flying out of the driver's seat and racing to the door.

Fifteen minutes within being there, Jim had a handful of crisp shirts thrown over his arms, moving faster than McCoy could keep up. Blonde hair could be seen dashing between sections of clothing and McCoy was nearly dizzy following him. Occasionally, Jim would pop up seemingly out of nowhere, holding a shirt against his chest before a shake or nod of the head and an occasional comment.

"No."

"Yes."

"It looks better on the hanger."

"If you ever wear this color, I will stop being your friend."

Other shoppers glanced at them with varying levels of amusement and McCoy couldn't hold back a laugh or two. Fifteen minutes later, Jim was practically man-handling him over to the dressing area. The attendant looked mildly concerned as Jim bodily shoved McCoy into a dressing room and tossed the clothing over the top.

"Put on the black slacks first," Jim ordered from the next cubical over. The attendant laughed quietly a few feet away.

McCoy stood in the middle of the tiny dressing room under the harsh fluorescent lights in front of a somewhat beat up mirror with clothing in piles on the floor and a shirt that had landed on his shoulder. Perfect. So far, it was already better than any time he had gone shopping with Jocelyn.

As quickly as the clothes had been selected, the final outfits were chosen.

Jim modeled in front of the full length mirror, blowing kisses at his reflection much to McCoy's stoic chagrin. Jim wore charcoal slacks that were more fitted towards the ankles with a long-sleeved, button-down white shirt made of some sort of fancy fabric. Silk? Could 3000 threadcount only be for sheets? McCoy wasn't sure.

He stared at his own reflection and found himself unable to find fault with Jim's and the attendant's selection for him: neatly ironed black slacks with a folded cuff at the bottom and a similar shirt to Jim's with cobalt buttons and minus the fancy fabric.

Jim took a break from his narcissism to stand behind McCoy and slap an arm around his shoulder.

"Dah-ling, you never looked better."

McCoy wondered vaguely if Jim had taken some shots before they went shopping, but decided it was easier in the long run to just go with the flow.

"I thought you didn't want us to look cutesy," he commented, gesturing between their nearly matching shirts.

Jim rolled his eyes at him through their reflection. "It's a wedding. Do you have any idea how many guys will be wearing white shirts?" He looked away from the mirror to actually glance over at McCoy. "Fuck, you really are nervous."

McCoy did not need to respond. Jim knew as he always knew. There was no need for conversation about it.

"Come!" he exclaimed loudly as he began to march back to his dressing room to change. "We shall commemorate with new ties."

* * *

She had rented out the entire firehall for her reception. It wasn't couture or at the Ritz or in Hawaii or any of the thousand places that McCoy knew without question of a doubt she would have wanted instead. But that's what you get for marrying a carpenter instead of staying with a doctor.

There was pink and yellow everywhere and everything seemed to suggest that a butterfly threw up. Speaking of throwing up, McCoy was pretty sure he was going to puke his guts out if they got any closer to the nauseating building and he couldn't blame that sensation on the color scheme.

"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you," he repeated over and over again, hissing into Jim's ear as the younger man literally pushed him towards the building that seemed to pulsate with wedding music.

"Whatever you are picturing and imagining, it's not going to be that bad. I promise," Jim swore, gritting his teeth in effort as he strongarmed McCoy and maneuvered the door handle at the same time.

Jim, however, could not have expected what happened next.

The plan was to go in through the back door (The smaller door near the Dalmatian dog entrance is the back right?) while music was playing so that no one, absolutely no one, would see them right away.

Ha. McCoy would have laughed if this had happened to anyone else.

Jim had flung open the door with a resounding _thwack_! Apparently, he thought it would have been heavier. Mistake one. Mistake two was choosing what now was clearly known to be the main entrance to the reception. Mistake three was that awkward timing in which the DJ had just turned off the music and the wedding party was standing, presumably for toasts and kisses and whatnot.

Mistake four was bringing Jim.

"So, is this the Treadway wedding shin-dig?" Loud. Clear. Heard over the entire room.

As soon as McCoy regained sensation in his legs and arms, he was going to fucking strangle him.

Dead silence followed their dramatic entrance and McCoy's eyes immediately sought Jocelyn's. What was that saying? Hell hath no fury? Yeah. That applied in this instance. Back when they were together, he had appreciated that her face grew red with anger before she started yelling. He had seen it as a warning sign to get the hell outta dodge. Now, she was as red as the fire trucks that had moved for the wedding.

No one in the room seemed to know what to say, but a few twittering nervous laughs could be heard from various tables and some whispering fluttered around.

Then suddenly…

"Daaaaaaaad-dyyyyyyyyyyyy!"

With all the force of a hand grenade, a tiny little pixie of a girl flew across the small dance floor with feet pounding determinately on the floor and dark hair streaming behind her like a flag. McCoy's legs worked long enough for him to fall to his knees just in time to collect his small daughter into a bone-breaking hug.

"Oh, Daddy, I've missed you!" she exclaimed, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

"Me too, baby, me too," he murmured into her hair which smelled a bit like icing. He was pretty sure that if he saw the wedding cake, there would be a bit of icing or a decorative flower missing and little-girl-fingerprints in its wake.

With Joanna in his arms, he found the sensation returning full force in his legs. As all of his joints began working again, he stood up, still hugging his daughter. Without a glance back at Jim who was undoubtedly watching like the hundred or so other people in the room, he crossed the floor to address Jocelyn face-first.

She actually looked fairly pretty and any man who didn't know what a bitch she could truly be would have been attracted to her. After all, isn't that what happened with him? She stood there, looking so similar to how she had looked on their own wedding day. Her hair was twisted up, a dark bun under the veil she hadn't taken off yet. The dress was modest for her age, a bit of lace and a pink wrap around her waist that matched the tiny roses sown on the bodice. The anger in her face actually enhanced the fierceness of her beauty, her gray eyes bright and cheeks still flushed. It had been her saving grace during the early years in their marriage because she could get so mad and he would still think she was beautiful.

He should have slammed the fucking door in her fucking face after their first fight on the third date.

She was staring at him, waiting for a reaction. He tensed up momentarily, feeling the floor fall away from his feet for a moment, but Joanna tightened her grip around his neck and kept him anchored to the world. Hefting her back up on his hip for a stronger hold, he wondered, _what would Jim do?_

"Hey, Jocelyn," he announced with ease. "Didn't mean to make such an entrance, but well, if you knew Jim, you'd understand." He gestured back to where his friend was still standing and everyone in the hall glanced over to give Jim a once over. He waved gaily as though there were no awkwardness whatsoever.

Jim held McCoy's gaze for a moment and smirked, somehow passing off some of his own confidence to the older man. When McCoy faced his ex-wife once more, it was with an identical smirk playing on his own lips.

"Ya look great, Joss," he told her before sweeping his eyes over the table to see who else was there. "Ah, Clay, good to see you," he said as casually as if they had run into each other at the grocery store. He stretched out a hand to shake the groom's hand. Treadway seemed hesitant to reciprocate the gesture, but he ended up not needing to make a decision because Jocelyn grabbed McCoy's wrist herself.

"In the hall. Now," she hissed, her face livid. McCoy nodded and glanced over at Joanna who sighed wearily, but seemed to understand that she needed to let go of him. He lowered her to the ground and scampered around the table to sit in Jocelyn's mother's lap. She stroked Joanna's hair gently while staring at him as though he was a monster with two heads and how _dare_ he touch a little girl.

Oh, in-laws. How much he did. Not. Miss them.

"Sweetie, is that icing in your hair?"

He could hear Jocelyn's mother fussing over Joanna as the little girl peered over at her parents with great interest.

"No, Gramma. I promise."

McCoy glanced back at his daughter, catching a final glimpse before Jocelyn tugged him out the glass doors. Joanna grinned mischievously at him, trying to hide the icing from the eagle eyes of her grandmother.

_That's my girl._

* * *

Jocelyn forcibly dragged him to a somewhat secluded hallway of the fire hall, far away enough that the music was barely discernible in the otherwise overwhelming silence. When she finally turned to look at him, McCoy was struck with a memory of how Joanna had looked only a few years ago when having temper tantrums. Jocelyn's eyes were a bit wild, bugging out of her face slightly as she seemed to chew her tongue before speaking.

McCoy remained silent, wanting her to make the first comment and thus decide what sort of tone the conversation would carry.

"What the fuck were you thinking? You need to leave!"

Ah, so she wanted to use _that_ tone.

"I could say the same thing for you, darling," he snapped back, adding as much contempt as possibly into the last two syllables. "You had our daughter lie to me."

"I didn't want you to show up! So leave! Get the hell outta here!" she half-whispered, half-screeched. Her hands shook in front of her body, her fingers constricted and angled awkwardly. He could tell she was just itching to strangle him.

"So, you were going to keep this from me? Get me to pay more alimony? Cheat me out of my money? You goddamn selfish bitch," he spat at her, taking a step forward.

She flinched, but otherwise did not move away from him.

"Stop!" she commanded almost regally. There was a moment of terse silence in which the two ex-lovers glared at each other hatefully. Then something unrecognizable flickered over Jocelyn's made-up face. She rolled her eyes juvenilely and rested her hands on her hips, her puffy white skirt flaring out from beneath the palms of her hands.

When she spoke again, it was with slightly less fierceness coloring her tones, but the anger was still a clear undercurrent. "Okay, you can call me all the names you want, but that's not what happened."

"Then why didn't you tell me?" McCoy shot back, nearly exploding with rage. Her sudden release did nothing but enrage him further.

"I didn't want you to show up!" she shrieked as though he were an idiot and how dare he not understand that. "How many times do I have to say that? I knew that if you knew about the wedding, you'd show up and we'd have an issue like this!" She ended on a high note, her hands gesturing madly between the two of them and back into the general direction of the reception.

Jocelyn seemed to catch herself in her crazy actions and lowered her hands to place them back on her hips. She took a deep breath and when she spoke again, it was much calmer.

"I was going to tell you I got married after the wedding," she told him, refusing to look him in the eye and instead focusing on a random spot on the concrete floor beneath them.

"I didn't know that," he stressed, untaken by her calmer actions. "You need to tell me these sorts of things."

"I'm not obligated to tell you anything anymore," she spit back with weak venom. He could see her struggling not to stomp her foot juvenilely. "You're gone. You're not part of my life anymore."

"I will always be part of your life. Joanna," he reminded her, his facial muscles still tense and aching. Despite his best intentions, he could feel some of the frustration leaving him as he saw how downtrodden Jocelyn looked in front of him, so small in her wedding dress.

"Len…" she started, evoking his old nickname as though that would sooth him. It didn't.

"Jocelyn, you need to let me see her more."

It was not a request. Or even a demand. It was said evenly because he knew she would not respond to any more anger. It was just honest and open and there was no rebuttal against his tone.

"I," she hesitated, her eyes glancing between him and the hallway leading back to her wedding reception. "Well, can we work something out later?" she pleaded like the spoiled brat her daddy had raised her to be. "I want to get back to my wedding. Just leave."

"I'm not leaving here until we work something out," he refused to give in.

"Fine," she snapped, all pathetic tones and sorrowful eyes gone. He knew it had just been an act, a deliberate attack on his compassionate side. Phah. As if he still had one when it came to her.

She turned on her mock-designer heels and stomped off back to the reception like the brat she really was under all that pretty tulle and make-up.

"Just leave me alone and we can talk afterwards," she called out over her shoulder to where he still stood.

Oh, fuck her.

* * *

"Well, you don't _smell_ drunk."

And with that, Lorelei Signal plopped herself down at McCoy's and Jim's otherwise empty table.

_Of all the people_, McCoy thought amusedly to himself as he eyed his old friend. Nearly everyone else at the wedding had refused to talk to McCoy and Jim, though did nothing to stop themselves from openly staring and stage-whispering. Fuckers.

Deeply tanned skin, pleased brown eyes, dark lion hair and all, she grinned with saccharine sweetness across the table at McCoy.

"That would be because I'm not drunk," McCoy responded in turn, frowning at her expression.

"Then why the hell else wouldja come to this wedding?" she announced a little too loudly as always.

"Okay, bigger questions!" Jim interrupted before McCoy could answer. The two looked at him as he crossed his arms over his chest indignantly. "Who are you?" he asked, looking over at the stout woman before turning to face McCoy with raised eyebrows. "And why aren't you introducing me?"

Lorelei looked at McCoy with one heavily penciled eyebrow raised. "Yes, Lenny, who's your friend? He's cute," she purred teasingly at the younger man who, of course, took it all in stride.

"Oh, I like you already. Jim Kirk," he announced, holding out his hand to the woman who accepted immediately.

"Lorelei Signal. Lenny here and I used to go to high school together. I'm here for the bride," she informed Jim with a friendly glance over at McCoy. "I assume you two're also here for the bride?"

"Actually, I'm here for the flower girl," McCoy corrected her, ignoring the bright look that had overtaken Jim's face at the mention of "Lenny."

"Precious," Lorelei smiled as she turned to face Joanna, who was still tightly held by her grandmother and looking over at her father wistfully.

"Oh, our Lenny's quite the precious guy," Jim concluded, flashing her his best hundred-watt smile.

The two of them chuckled over McCoy's flushed (it's not a blush, dammit) face. He glared at both of them, already not liking the friendship springing up between the two.

"So, how'd your talk go?" Jim asked, only slightly more serious as he jerked his head in the direction of the door McCoy and Jocelyn had gone through.

"Eh, we yelled," he shrugged to no one's surprise. "Nothing much was resolved. Apparently, I'm supposed to trust that she'll talk to me after this fucking thing is over with."

"Oh, it's been so long since I've heard ya curse," Lorelei spoke nostalgically, seemingly unmoved by his summary of the fight.

Both of the men shook their heads, Jim with a smile and McCoy with a look of incredulity.

"Bones," Jim interjected raucously, gaining more than just a few curious glances, "you keep straying from the more important parts of the conversation: Do we get cake?"

"Oh, somehow I forgot to ask about that in the midst of screaming at her about keeping my daughter away from me," McCoy deadpanned as Lorelei laughed heartily beside him, her hair shaking wildly around her.

"Dammit, Bones, get your priorities in order," Jim responded with mock seriousness, ignoring everyone else around them.

"I'll work on that," McCoy sighed.

* * *

The toasts passed without too much pomp and circumstance, and the biggest problem was that they had no alcohol to make a drinking game out of it.

"I knew I should have brought the booze," Jim said for the umpteenth time as yet another cliché, corny line passed through the lips of another shmuck spouting words of poetry to the newlyweds.

McCoy and Lorelei nodded without too much enthusiasm.

After twenty minutes of stifling warmth and monotonous speeches, Jocelyn's father kissed her cheek and some angel of mercy (or the wedding coordinator. Whichever.) stated that the buffet would soon be ready.

Truly thankful applause was finally heard, not that fake shit that followed each of the speeches.

"Sorry, honeys, but I don't think you RSVP'd in time," Lorelei drawled, glancing between the two men as conversations erupted at the tables around them.

"Oh, damn. And I would have picked beef, too," Jim responded, snapping his fingers in exaggerated dejection.

Lorelei chuckled good-naturedly, running her tickle-me-pink-painted talons through her hair, making it appear wilder than usual.

"You can pick off my plate, Jimmy," she promised. He shook his head with a smile, brushing off her suggestion with gratitude.

A server came to their table, a spotted teenager McCoy knew vaguely. He nodded stiffly in recognition at McCoy before glancing curiously at Jim and turning to Lorelei to inform her that she could go to the buffet after the wedding table had gotten their food.

She waved him off, waggling her fingernails at him a few times before her fist came to rest under her chin.

"So, how'd you two meet?" she asked amiably. Her free hand gestured between the two of them, her gold bangles shaking on her wrist.

"Business," Jim answered quickly with a side-glance at McCoy before he could answer.

McCoy blinked twice at his friend, unsure of what he was talking about.

"What sort of business are you in?" she questioned with sincere interest.

"My dear," Jim charmed, trying to distract her with his too-white teeth, "why bore up the conversation with such talk? The open bar has _finally_ been opened and I spot an empty seat. Join me when you want a bit more entertainment."

He walked off with a considerable amount of swagger and more than just a few coifed heads turned to watch him strut over to the open bar.

_More like watch his ass shake_, McCoy grumbled in his mind.

Lorelei eyed him leaving with barely concealed laughter. She waited until he had initiated a conversation with the bartender with not-so-surprising ease before turning at neck-break speed in her seat to face McCoy once more.

"_Please_ don't tell me he's your version of _Pretty Woman_," she begged, her eyes sparkling.

"What?"

"A sophisticated hooker for hire, Lenny," she told him exasperatedly. "Have you really never seen this movie?"

His blank expression made her blink so rapidly that he was momentarily concerned that her false eyelashes would fly off and impale another wedding guest.

"_Pretty Woman_! With Julia Roberts?" she said, staring at him as though that were an obvious clue.

"Oh, God," McCoy groaned, bringing his hands to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Please don't tell Jim he's the male version of Julia Roberts. He already has the ego of a Greek god."

"Well, if he's not the Julia Roberts to your Ricky Gere, then who is he?" she pressed with all the curiosity of a teenage girl on the edge of juicy gossip. Her eyes grew wide with interest, her fingers tangled into her hair, and her coral pink lips pursed in anticipation.

"A friend," McCoy finally relented. "We met in San Francisco. He's… interesting," he finished lamely, unsure of how to really describe Jim without use of elaborate comparisons and similes.

"No kidding," she responded rolling her eyes. She looked over her shoulder at him and the pair of them watched Jim wave jovially. He motioned towards McCoy. "He's wavin' you over for a drink," she translated unnecessarily.

"Eh, I'll pass for now," he answered, shaking his head at Jim. Jim shrugged and then faced the bartender once more, striking up what seemed to be a fairly animated conversation. McCoy wasn't much in the mood for a drink, not wanting to be at all impaired during his impending conversation with the she-devil herself.

"Did Leonard McCoy just pass up the opportunity for a drink?" Lorelei asked with piqued intrigue, her too-thin eyebrows raised in question.

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, it's a bit of a shock for most people here," she said, pushing away from the table to cross one leg over the other casually.

"What do you mean?" he asked slowly, leaning in towards her and placing his weight onto his elbows on the table.

"Oh, haven't you heard?" she spoke with fake surprise, clearly excited to share her inside knowledge with him.

"Apparently not." He could feel his characteristic irritation growing. "We aren't getting younger here, Lor."

"Speak for yourself, honey," she responded pointedly as she smoothed the skirt of her zebra-print dress over her thighs. "Anyway, your lovely flower of an ex-wife has explained away the reason for your departure as you being a recovering alcoholic."

A pause.

"You're shitting with me."

"Oh yeah, I made up the story 'cause it's so damn classy," Lorelei snarked with a roll of her eyes before shrugging one shoulder. "Nah, Joss went around telling people that you were a drunk. That's the reason she left you and got to keep Joanna."

"That's not true," McCoy managed to say through terse lips. His hands clenched into fists on the table as people's chatter around him became white noise in his newfound anger.

"Honey, I know that," she comforted him, her voice immediately dropping its gossip-y tone and adopting a more sincere tenor. "Hell, everyone knows that. We all know that Joss has been stuck in cheerleading camp since sophomore year." She paused for a moment to let the information set in and settle McCoy's nerves. Once he felt the redness drop from his face and his heart rate return back to semi-normal, she mused, "My theory is that she was just ashamed of herself for sleeping with Clay."

"Don't you excuse her for making up stories," he warned her, an empty threat heavy in his voice.

"No, it don't excuse her at all," Lorelei agreed with an infuriating casual tone. Didn't she understand the magnitude of this? "But she did it and there's nothing you can do now. No one believes it though," she assured him, reaching out over the table to squeeze his forearm. "We all know the truth. It's a small town and you're a damn good guy."

He stayed quiet, his eyes unfocused on how dark her skin appeared compared to his. Had he really been away from the Georgia sun for so long?

"'Sides," she began again, squeezing his arm once more before withdrawing, "you two always assumed people cared more."

"What do you mean?"

Lorelei stopped talking for a second, which worried him. He knew her well enough to know that she only ever stopped talking if she was really deep in thought. He could count the amount of times it happened on one hand. And he had known her since grade school.

"You two always seemed to think that the rest of town gave two shits about what you were doing with your time." She moved her hand across the table again to grasp his hand into hers. "Lenny, I love you and God help me I love Joss, too," Lorelei stated with some confusion as though she couldn't figure out why she was friends with Jocelyn. She shook her head and continued. "But you two both need to get a grip and realize that no one really cares too much what you two did and do. You were never quite the talk of the town like you thought you were."

Nothing like some good, blunt honesty during the most awkward wedding reception in the world. Nice.

"Well, gee, glad to know I didn't matter," he answered snidely, pulling his hand out from under her carnation claws.

He debated internally about whether or not he should join Jim. A drink, a really hard drink would be fucking amazing right now. All un-inebriated conversations be damned.

"Don't get all offended now," Lorelei chided, sounding a bit like her mother. He wondered if he should tell her that. It might be the mortification she needed. "It's not that you didn't matter. It's just that other things mattered more to the rest of us. Like our own lives, for instance. Ya'll just needed to get over yourselves."

"I'll keep that in mind," he gruffed. McCoy was, however, temporarily assuaged and thought that perhaps maybe she was on to something there.

"You could take her to court, ya know," she pressed when she was sure that he wasn't going to yell at her or get angry. "Get some custody of your kid. Ya won't get full custody. The only judge in town—"

"—is her cousin," he finished for her with a sign of resignation while she grimaced sympathetically. "Yeah. I know." He looked down at her hand still comfortably around his and gave it a tiny shake, looking up at her face with a wan smile. "Wanna know something funny?"

"Yeah," she mirrored his smile. "Tell me something hilarious."

"I don't think I'll take her to court."

Clearly, she had been expecting something funny in the haha-sense. This was more ironic funny. And not at all what she was hoping for, if the crestfallen look on her face was any indication.

"Why the hell not?" She practically threw his hand back at him and crossed her arms across her chest.

McCoy watched Jim across the room for a while. Everyone else was getting food at this point and sometimes someone would block his vision, but he kept his eyes trained in his friend.

"Too many reasons."

Lorelei shook her head, unruly curls swaying against her cheeks as she finally stood up to get her dinner.

"You're a better person than I am."

McCoy doubted that.

* * *

No more than five minutes after the cake had been cut and served (and pointedly _not_ served to Jim and McCoy) did Joanna rush over to her father.

She glanced at him conspiratorially before settling down under the table. She brought her finger to her lips to remind him to stay quiet, and then noticed the icing coating it and licked it off instead.

Both Jim and Lorelei were also peering at the small girl sitting at their feet and smiled fondly at her actions.

"Baby, what are you doing?" McCoy asked her, slipping a napkin under the table so that she could clean herself off better.

"Hiding from Gramma. I wanna talk to you," she informed him as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Then she made a big show of peering out between the legs of one of the empty chairs at their table at her grandmother who was focused on Jocelyn and Treadway smearing cake into each other's faces.

"Then come out from under the table so you can talk properly like the little lady you really are," he reprimanded her gently. She eyed him for a moment and snuck another peek at her grandmother before nodding slowly and crawled out from under the table.

Joanna pushed an empty chair right up against McCoy's and climbed into it, her patented white shoes hanging out over the sides and her head slumped against her father's arm.

"Why, hello there, Joanna-Banana!" Lorelei greeted warmly, waving her fingers at the little girl.

Joanna returned the wave, her hand flopping at her wrist, and then turned to face Jim curiously.

"Joanna, this is my friend Jim," McCoy told her, reaching over the table for one of Lorelei's napkins. He dipped it into the water glass before him and used the corner of it to wipe off Joanna's sticky hands and face.

"Hey there. Your dad's told me a lot about you," Jim smiled. Despite the open grin on his face, McCoy detected a smidgeon of nervousness around the younger man and chuckled softly to himself. Of all the women who could make him nervous, it was a seven year old girl.

"You gave me the necklace, right?" Joanna asked carefully, still withholding judgment on the golden haired man-child.

"Sure did," he nodded, looking up briefly at McCoy to wink.

She grinned at him, one canine tooth missing (was she really losing her baby teeth already?) and pulled at the golden chain around her neck until the Chinese symbol pendant emerged from under the front of her dress.

"I wear it all the time," she whispered in that way all little girls know how to do. Then she giggled happily and peered down at the charm, rubbing her thumb over it.

"What do we say?" McCoy prompted, nudging her slightly.

She looked up at him curiously before her brown eyes brightened with sudden understanding. "Oh!" She turned to look at Jim earnestly. "Thank you, Mr. Jim!" Her brown curls bobbed around her head as she nodded profusely.

Jim laughed, his mouth wide and his eyes crinkled, looking for all the world the very personification of a good mood. "You're welcome, Miss Joanna."

Joanna's smile matched Jim's, clearly flattered at being called "Miss." She pulled herself into her father's lap, settling down comfortably on his legs with her feet hanging out almost ninety degrees away from her, knocking her heels together idly. McCoy brought his hands to encircle her tiny waist and she rested her head on his chest while sliding her arms around his neck.

McCoy closed his eyes for a moment, drinking in the feeling, and then dropped a kiss down on the crown of her hair. She smelled like icing, strawberry shampoo, and home. This was his little girl and he wasn't sure how he'd be able to leave her when he went back to Georgia.

"Daddy?" she questioned, pulling her head off of his chest to peer up at him soulfully. "How come I can't push cake into anyone's face like Mommy?"

McCoy pushed his brooding thoughts aside and laughed freely.

Oh, Joanna.

* * *

"Of all the songs," Jim said, one or two beers away from giggling.

"Shush!" Lorelei hissed at him, nearly doubled over herself with a handful of empty margarita glasses in front of her.

McCoy was still stone-cold sober and even he was finding it hard to keep his own amusement concealed. He spared a glance around the room at the other tables to find a mixture of people either tearfully watching with sappy smiles or hands pressed to their lips to keep the laughter in.

_Bless the Broken Road_ continued to play from the DJ's speakers as Jocelyn and Treadway floated across the open dance floor. Well, it was more like they swayed awkwardly while Jocelyn occasionally winced as Treadway stepped on her feet.

Classic.

_Others who broke my heart, they were like northern stars pointing me on my way into your loving arms_

A few people couldn't entirely contain themselves at this point and more than a handful glanced over at McCoy to see how he reacted to that line. He merely shook his head slowly with a grin as he handed a napkin over to Jim so he could wipe the tears of mirth off his face.

Treadway twirled her around, or at least tried to, but they managed to keep their balance and not fall.

A spasm of anger flashed over Jocelyn's face, but she masked it quickly enough with a loving expression and doe-y eyes as she patted her new husband's cheek in a pretense of affectionate touches.

_It's all part of a grander plan that is coming true._

Immediately after that line, as if on cue, with the air of someone on their final walk to the gallows, Joanna stood up from where she had been sitting with her friends and walked dejectedly over to her mother and new stepfather.

"Oh, Joanna! Do you want to dance with us?"

Really, the whole thing was just so fucking rehearsed. No one, not a single person, would buy that Joanna walked over of her own accord to dance with them.

The giggles teetered throughout the room, but Jocelyn turned a deaf ear as she and Treadway opened their intimate circle of arms to allow Joanna between them. The new circle of three spun around the room slowly as the song continued.

"Oh, that poor, sweet girl," Lorelei commented in a drunken-induced girlish voice.

The three of them muffled their laughter into their hands, Lorelei pulling the cloth napkin out of her lap to further silence her giggles.

Rascal Flatts's voice finally crooned the ending, much to everyone's relief. However, no one was as excited for the song to be over as Joanna. She flew out of their arms like the hounds of hell were after her and went back to her friends, falling hard on her knees.

As the song ended, the DJ commented on how lovely a couple Jocelyn and Treadway were (Hah. She must have paid him a shit-ton to say that.). Polite applause followed and the floor became quickly crowded as the wedding guests scattered themselves on the floor.

The next song began, slowly serenading from the speakers, and the guests all began to move almost as one. In a moment of surprising compassion, McCoy actually thought it was almost sweet. Off to the side, Joanna, her friends, and a few more children forced to attend the wedding were trying to start up a congo line around the dancers.

As was usual for Lorelei, as soon as the dancing started, she was immediately scooped up by whichever man happened to come by her first. A whirl of a zebra dress with a pink underskirt was the last McCoy knew he'd see of her for a while.

"She's fun," Jim remarked, eyeing her appreciatively as she waltzed away into the heart of the dance floor.

"You should have known her in high school," McCoy chuckled, looking at his friend fondly. He had missed her. Hell, he had missed a lot about his old town.

"You never mentioned her," Jim said. It wasn't a question or anything, really. Just an offhand comment, an observation. McCoy didn't need to respond.

But he did anyway. Jim had that affect.

"I lost touch with a lot of friends when I went off to college," McCoy admitted, leaning back in his chair, not facing Jim. He watched the dancers, recognizing some faces as old classmates and neighbors. His old mailman was swinging around the town's florist and he watched with a twinge of reminiscence. "Not too many people here went far from home to college, if they went at all. Only reason I talked to them after getting my MD was because Joss stayed friends with them while I was away."

"High school sweethearts?"

"In the biggest way."

"You came back to her," Jim murmured after a short silence. "That's sweet."

"Surprisingly so, I know," McCoy joked, tossing his glance over at his friend, expecting him to be grinning teasingly. But instead Jim looked rather serene, spinning a slick finger around the rim of his glass creating a one-note melody.

"Eh, not a surprise. You're a loyal man, Bones." His lips curved upwards in a small imitation of his signature smirk.

The rest of the song played and they sat in their silence, Bones watching as Jim collected the different glasses around him and played a strange song with them. The song ended and the next one started, to which Jim's head perked up as the strains of the guitar started.

"Dance with me," he announced, already standing up from his seat.

What the fuck was this kid on?

"No."

"Oh, come on," Jim grasped the back of his chair and leaned forward imploringly. "It'll be fun."

"No."

Fucking insane.

"You can't take someone to a wedding and then not dance with them," Jim chided like he was Miss Manners or some shit like that. He moved around the table with ease until he stood directly beside McCoy. He lowered himself just slightly to be face to face with the older man, his blue eyes sparking impishly. "No wonder your wife divorced you. You don't know how to be a romantic."

Those _eyes_.

And somehow, he couldn't explain it, his legs forced him to stand. A completely separate force from his mind was governing his body and Jim led him out to the dance floor amid strange glances and second looks.

"I didn't take you to this wedding, you forced me to go," he grumbled, using his grouchiness to cover up the fact that yes, actually, he was going to dance with Jim at a wedding.

"And this isn't a damn romance!" he finished with a bit more grouch than necessary.

"Whatever you say, Bones," Jim laughed with an amiable roll of those damn blue eyes.

One hand firmly pressed to Jim's shoulder and the other resting in his grasp, McCoy glanced around the room. No one was watching anymore. No one seemed to care. Maybe Lorelei was right. Damn her.

_Shall I stay?_

_Would it be a sin,_

_For I can't help falling in love with you._

They could have fit a whole other person between them and it was quite possibly the most awkward embrace McCoy had ever experienced in his life. But, it was comfortable. Jim smelled like beer and some sort of Jim-scent that he carried with him wherever he went. The lights were low and it was already dark outside, the street lights too dim to shine through the high-above windows.

The music was deep, reverberating through the wooden tiled floor, and Jim was there. Jim was smiling, his eyes were laughing. He had opted to place his hand on McCoy's elbow rather than his waist, more for McCoy's comfort, he knew. But it worked. It fit.

McCoy stopped glancing around by the second verse because as far as he was concerned, Lorelei was right. No one gave a damn and for the first time, he didn't give a damn either.

"Can't believe the music list she picked," he muttered almost under his breath.

"Hey," Jim said, jerking his elbow a little with a frown on his otherwise unlined face. "Don't diss on the King."

_Take my hand,_

_Take my whole life, too,_

_For I can't help falling in love with you._

* * *

Lorelei waited until Jim had started dancing with a young, curious girl who had been eyeing him all night. As soon as he began twirling her on the dance floor like a pro (Jocelyn glared jealous daggers the whole while as Jim never stepped on his partner's feet. Poor Treadway.), Lorelei turned her head to McCoy in tipsy curiosity.

"You sure you're just friends?"

"What do you mean?" McCoy practically snapped back, ignoring the unpleasant feelings randomly (it had to be randomly, there was no other explanation) bubbling in the pit of his stomach as he watched Jim and the girl.

"Nothing," Lorelei responded in a contradictory tone. She turned her head to watch the pair with McCoy. Jim swung the girl out, never bringing her too close to him. Without turning her head back to face McCoy, Lorelei continued. "I just think you might want to consider being something more with him."

"Why on God's green earth would you say that?" Oh great. Now she was crazy. Well, she had always been a bit on the crazy side to begin with, McCoy reasoned with himself.

"Because you look at him the way Joss always wanted you to look at her."

And on that enigmatic note, Lorelei pushed the chair from the table, got up, and walked away, leaving McCoy in his stunned state. These would be words to contemplate, if his brain ever started working again.

* * *

The reception ended around nine thirty, a whopping two and a half hours after it started. Jocelyn made a big show about how the little kids, including her precious little daughter (cue the guests' ooh-ing and ah-ing), needed some rest after such a big day. Of course, anyone with half a brain knew this to be a cover. Everyone, including that precious little daughter judging from the roll of her big, round eyes, knew that Jocelyn just wanted to the awkwardness of the ex-husband-showing-up-at-the-wedding _faux pas_ (Jim insisted it was a faux pas instead of a catastrophe despite McCoy's own eyeroll.).

The wedding guests began to exit the building, a few of them drunk enough to bid McCoy goodbye while a few other more sober guests even nodded politely to the surly man. He nodded in return to his old classmates and neighbors, wanting more than anything to just get the fuck out of there.

Lorelei slurred her words as she promised McCoy she would stand by him through the whole conversation, but McCoy assured her he would be fine. After a few attempts, she nodded in agreement and tightly hugged him to her, wishing him good-bye. And as her standard farewell, she brought his mouth down to hers in a smacking kiss which left him wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

She then spun from his arms and headed towards Jim with a sort of determination in her glazed over eyes as she landed a wet kiss right on his lips, which he returned in equal measure as he dipped her with grandeur.

Grinning, McCoy turned to find someone who could take her home only to find a small group of people trying to decide whose turn it was to take Lorelei's inebriated ass home this time. Apparently this wasn't the first time.

A rather resigned-looking blonde haired guest lost the rock-paper-scissors debacle and walked over to Lorelei, speaking in soothing tones about how it was time to head home.

With a final wave of her hand and twirl of her zebra skirt, Lorelei exited the building with her chaperone. The remaining guests exhaled a breath of relief as one before gathering their belongings and making their own departures.

Before long, only a handful of guests remained. The servers began clearing the tables (a few of them discreetly finished off some of the half-full glasses of alcohol) as the wedding party began to transport the large pile of wedding gifts from the table they had been resting on to various cars to be taken to Jocelyn's and Treadway's home. Even the DJ was packing up, still humming the song Joanna had requested him to play while she and McCoy danced.

Both Jim and McCoy stood off the side, twin pillars with their arms crossed and their eyes resting on Jocelyn, waiting for her to make due on her promise to talk to McCoy. Joanna sprung for the ensnaring arms of her grandmother and rushed over to stand between the two men, mirroring their position. Jim and McCoy refused to look at each other over Joanna's curly head for fear of bursting out in laughter. Still, the stifled smiles were surely not at all intimidating to Jocelyn.

Treadway made sure to steer clear away of the whole situation, but both of Jocelyn's parents spoke in hushed tones to her, all three taking turns to glance over at McCoy with a mix of anger and concern etched into their faces.

Finally, Jocelyn raised a single French-manicured finger and beckoned McCoy to follow her out the same doors they had exited a couple hours previous.

With a pat to Joanna's head and a significant look of support shared with Jim, McCoy headed over towards his ex-wife and walked out the door with her, ignoring the glare from his former father-in-law. Bastard had never quite liked him all that much.

They walked together in silence, their footsteps echoing on the floor, her heels clapping in time to her clipped, tense steps. After a short distance had been placed between them and the other party guests, Jocelyn turned around so quickly that McCoy nearly ran into her.

He steadied himself in a cocked-hip, arms-crossed position that he knew he must have gotten from Jim. Smiling sardonically at the she-devil down the bridge of his nose, he let his voice drawl out.

"So, ready to handle this thing like adults?"

Jocelyn gave him her best "fuck you, I'm really not amused" smile before crossing her arms with a little too much force.

* * *

"So, tell me once more."

Exasperation was clear on both of their parts, in Jim's tone of voice and in McCoy's heavy sigh following his friend's words.

"I told you, I'm not taking her to court," McCoy informed him again.

Jim closed the hotel door behind him, standing near the door with a disbelieving spot on his face.

"You're an alien, right? I mean, that's the only explanation I can think of as to why you, Bones, would not take her to court."

McCoy groaned as he sat down on the bed and kicked his shoes off.

"Jim—"

"Tell me the truth, Bones, if that is your real name!" he nearly shouted, jabbing a finger at McCoy accusingly.

"It's _not_ my real name, you dumbass," McCoy responded dryly. He let a moment of silence pass between them as Jim crossed the room to sit on his bed across from McCoy, watching him carefully. "I'm not taking her to court because I, I don't know," he trailed off, gesturing aimlessly with his hands before letting them fall listlessly into his lap. "I sorta take pity on her for leaving her alone while I worked at all time."

Another moment of silence.

"That's the biggest load of crap I have ever heard."

"Fuck off," McCoy flicked him off without any real heart in his words. "She agreed to give me part-time custody."

Jim's blue eyes seemed to bulge out of his boyish face as he slammed his fist down onto his knee.

"You should have gotten full custody!"

"No," McCoy said firmly, his voice rising slightly. He refused to speak again until Jim appeared to have calmed down some. "I don't have the money right now to get a bigger or nicer apartment. You know the place I have now would not work at all."

"No kidding," Jim scoffed, crossing his arms across his broad chest. "She'd have to sleep in the shower."

"Plus, if she lived with me, I'd be taking her out of her hometown and all of her friends and a whole neighborhood full of people who care for her," McCoy tried to reason with Jim. Jim still looked unconvinced, blowing away the flop of hair that had fallen into his face. "San Francisco is a nice city, but it's still a city and not the best place for her."

"So move," Jim challenged him as though it was just a simply solution.

"I can't switch jobs again, Jim. I've explained this to you already."

"So then when do you get to see her?" Jim nearly exploded with the question.

"She goes to school year-round, so she gets long vacations during the different semesters or whatever. She'll come visit me for a week or so every few months."

"It's not enough, Bones," Jim said, running his fingers through his hair agitatedly as he stared off behind McCoy. When McCoy did not respond, he snapped his eyes back to the older man in front of him. "What if Jocelyn, aka the she-bitch, doesn't let you see her? What if she goes back on her word?"

"That's when I will take her to court," McCoy stated darkly. "And I most assuredly will be calling up a judge that isn't related to her."

"Why are you doing this?" Jim responded, momentarily calm and sated with McCoy's assertion.

"Look," McCoy started, trying to reason with his friend, "Jocelyn and I already turned Joanna's world upside down once. And now Joss is married again? I don't want another huge change in her life. I want her to have some stability."

"Okay. Fine." Jim let the words hang in the air for a second and then slumped onto the bed. He huffed out a huge breath of air before his voice rang out again, two shades away from sounding whiney. "I'm tired."

"That's the depressants from all the alcohol you drank starting to work," McCoy informed him, still sitting on his bed and watching his friend.

"Ooh, that doctor-talk is so hot," Jim snarked, his eyes shut against the bright lights of their room.

"Ass."

"You know it." Jim stood up slowly from the bed and crossed over to his suitcase. "I think I'll just shower in the morning."

McCoy nodded and followed suit, walking over to his own suitcase to extract sleep clothes. On his right, Jim started to unknot the tie from around his neck.

"Explain to me one more time why you picked a gold tie," McCoy asked with a note of amusement.

"I honestly don't see why this bothers you so much," Jim answered stiffly with indignation, still refusing to answer what seemed to be McCoy's question of the day.

Jim tossed the slim piece of fabric into his suitcase. When he turned away to shrug off his button-down shirt, McCoy stealthily snagged the tie out of the suitcase.

"Gold?" he asked, grinning as he dangled it just out of Jim's reach. He laughed as Jim grabbed it out of his hands, scowling.

"Because I'm the golden boy," he answered loftily, his nose in the air. McCoy was still laughing as Jim tossed it back in the suitcase. "Shut up. It matches my hair."

Chuckling, McCoy changed into his clothes and freshened up in the bathroom, washing his face of the stress from the day.

When he exited the bathroom, he found Jim sprawled out on the bed on top of the covers and flipping through the channels on the television. After a few seconds of channel surfing, he settled on House. McCoy stared at the television for a moment before a tremor of shock ran through his body. He turned to Jim with sudden question, which Jim waved off before McCoy even spoke. Jim assured him that he had called ahead to the hospital so that McCoy wouldn't be fired.

"I used your vacation days. It's not like you've been using them for anything else."

McCoy ignored Jim's subsequent questions about whether or not it was required for all doctors to be grouchy and instead laid down on his own bed, half-watching the show. Almost instantly, he began to feel his eyelids droop tiredly.

Without any words, Jim turned off the television and the lights as both men settled more comfortably into their bed and readied for sleep.

McCoy had nearly drifted off when he heard Jim's voice sound as though it came from twenty thousand leagues under the sea.

"Hey Bones?"

"What, Jim?" he responded. Maybe. He was sorta muffled into the pillow and not entirely awake, so it might have been less coherent.

"Guess what."

"What?" he growled, not wanting to deal with this shit when he was so tired.

"You don't have to pay alimony anymore."

Silence. And then…

"I don't have to pay alimony anymore," McCoy said incredulously as the words began to set in.

"You don't have to pay alimony anymore," Jim repeated, smug in the darkness.

"I don't have to pay alimony anymore." It was like a new dawn was breaking onto McCoy's life.

"Hot damn."

More silence passed between them as McCoy grinned stupidly into the blackness surrounding him. He waited until Jim's breath began to even out before getting his own retaliation against the younger man for disturbing his sleep (regardless of the good news Jim had reminded him of).

"Hey, Jim?"

"What?" Jim whined. And in the darkness, McCoy could see the outline of Jim's form twist in the bed as he hugged the pillow tighter to his body.

"Thanks," he told him sincerely.

"Shut up and let me sleep."

The pillow suddenly flew across the space between the beds and landed on McCoy's chest, which he pushed onto the floor. But McCoy could hear a smile in the golden-haired man's voice and fell asleep with a smile of his own.

* * *

_Did you like it? Did you guys still love me? Does anyone still care that I'm writing this? Thank you to all the people still reading!_


	11. of Snoozes and Roommates

_**Notes**: This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. I'm not sure what sort of "verse" it is yet, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know! Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating. _

_**Disclaimer**: Star Trek is not mine. Also, there are several career ideas mentioned in one of the sections (farmer, fashion designer, etc.) which were borrowed with love from different AUs I have read and loved within the Star Trek fandom. I am paying homage to many other great and wonderful AUs with respect to the authors._

* * *

**A day after the wedding…**

McCoy wondered if there was a medical term for "ants in the pants." Because if so, McCoy was pretty sure he was obligated as a doctor to diagnose Jim with ants-pants-osis. Not even a full twenty-four hours after they returned to San Francisco, Jim was gone.

He didn't have much of an excuse, but then again, he rarely did. He waved good-bye with a cheery grin and a promise that he would try to visit again soon.

McCoy was momentarily taken aback from Jim's comment. He had forgotten that when he and Jim hung out, Jim was just visiting. It seemed so much more like he belonged in San Francisco.

If McCoy was honest, it felt like he belonged with _him_. But really, that was just the stress and mental exhaustion from the wedding speaking.

* * *

**A week after the wedding…**

McCoy's thumb hovered over the send button on his cell phone. A week is an acceptable amount of time to wait before contacting your friend, right? He almost smiled to himself, remembering a similar feeling to when he wanted to call Jocelyn right after their first date. Completely different circumstances though, of course.

_What city are you gracing with your presence now?_

Hit "send." Waited a moment. Felt the phone vibrate in his hand.

_Wouldn't you like to know?_

McCoy continued to stare at his phone, wondering if a second text would be sent. A joke, an attempt at humor, something. But no. The phone just sat in his hand as he reread the message for a fourth, fifth, sixth time before the screen went black to conserve battery.

He remained sitting on the bench, wondering if he should just call Jim to make sure he was alright. Finally, Nurse Chapel called him back into the hospital. His break was over.

The phone fell back into the pocket of his lab coat, weighing him down for the rest of his shift.

* * *

**A month after the wedding…**

**To: leonardmccoy**

**From: j-money**

**Subject: Legit, I'm fine. So stop your unnecessary worrying.**

_What it do, sucka?_

_Are you rolling your eyes right now? I bet you're rolling your eyes. :D Anyway, I'm just sending this e-mail to let you know that I am safe. That I am okay. That I am making only moderately bad choices. You know, the kind of choices that you would only regret if you were religious. Which I'm not. So yeah. No worries._

_Sorry I haven't been too responsive. I'm also a little shocked (and a bit hurt too, might I say) that you only texted me that one time. You knew that I needed space? D'aw, you're a darn tootin' good friend. (Yeah, that's right. You read tootin'. Cue eye roll number two. …and now three.)_

_Seriously though, I just wanted a little bit of time to clear my head. I've been thinking things that need to be thinked about. (#4) I tried calling you a few days ago, but I guess you were working or something. It went straight to voicemail and I didn't see the point in leaving a message that only said "Chill, man, it's all good in the hood." (Eyeroll five. Dizzy yet?)_

_Peace out, girl scout._

_James T. Kirk, badass extraordinaire_

_P.S. I'll text you when I'm back in town._

_P.P.S. And now for my final attempt to get you to roll your eyes: LOLZ!111ONEONEONE_

**To: j-money**

**From: leonardmccoy**

**Subject: glad to know you're alright**

_Now stop acting like a fucking moron._

* * *

**Two months after the wedding…**

It was two in the morning. It always seemed to be at two in the morning after a heinously long shift at the hospital when he got a cryptic text from Jim. Well, not so much cryptic as fucking annoying.

_Look out your window._

McCoy debated with the idea of just staying in his nice, warm, soft, lovely bed. But it really had been a while since he saw Jim and damned if that wasn't enough to make him crawl out of bed.

He edged his way over to the window, rubbing sleep from his eyes and yawning spectacularly. Admittedly, he was curious about what Jim had to show him out the window. Knowing him and his self-admiringly crazy antics, it could be anything.

So imagine McCoy's surprise when he looked out his window and saw… nothing. He looked down, through the sparse tree branches that obscured his vision between his view at the window and the hard, concrete ground below.

He could just make out Jim's figure standing like a lunatic in the dead of night. The moon was full that night and provided a fair amount of light that managed to gleam off of his golden hair (seriously, was that even possible? What sort of shampoo did he use?) that proved it was Jim. The figure gestured to McCoy, urging him to come down and meet him there.

_Meeting under a tree in the pale moonlight. Oh gee, fantastic. This should be good,_ McCoy thought to himself as he threw on a pair of worn out jeans that he fished out of the dirty-clothes bin. Hell, if Jim was going to wake him up at fucking two in the morning, he would have to learn to deal with the consequences.

Muttering obscenities to himself the whole way he fumbled down the stairs, he wondered what the hell Jim wanted and prayed to God that the kid wasn't a fucking mess. He was too tired to deal with that shit.

He walked outside, expecting to see Jim standing there, waiting, but to no avail. He doubled around the back of the building and found him near the entrance to the shitty park next to the apartment complex with a strange bundle in his left hand.

"So, you made me stick my head out the window for what reason? I'm failing to see a purpose here," he gruffed in way of hello.

"I wanted to be dramatic," Jim responded, shrugging as though that much was obvious. "Only, after I sent the text to you and you looked out the window, I realized I didn't have a big sign or a boombox or anything."

_Dumbass._

"Dumbass," he voiced his thoughts, shaking his head.

"You sweet, sweet man, you," Jim said, smiling sarcastically and bringing his free hand up to McCoy's cheek to pat it.

For a moment, he was almost overcome with the idea of biting Jim's fingers. But Jim might retaliate and the kid seemed all bright eyed and bushy tailed, an extreme advantage over McCoy's present condition.

"I just got home about three hours ago," McCoy informed him instead, a half-hearted glare in his eyes.

"Oh wow," Jim blinked, his eyebrows rising slightly. "Long shift."

"Yeah," McCoy said shortly. "I know."

Chuckling, Jim gestured McCoy to follow him as he made his way into the park, the thick grass coming up to nearly their ankles as they trudged through. The park was oddly silent and McCoy wondered if Jim hadn't chased out any of the usual miscreants who wasted their time in the park after hours so that the two of them could have the place to themselves. It seemed like something a man as selfish and self-centered as Jim would do. Like waking up a hard-working, tired man.

Jim seemed to be walking with a purpose which he, of course, did not share outright with McCoy. So McCoy fell into place behind him, following the erratic steps of his friend. When Jim finally found the spot that he had apparently been looking for, he stopped so abruptly that McCoy ran into him, his face cushioned by Jim's hair.

Jim unfurled the bundle under his arm and it was revealed in the moonlight to be forest green plaid blanket that was easily larger than a king-sized comforter. Momentarily, McCoy wondered how much luggage Jim must haul around with him from place to place if he managed to carry this with him.

After busily walking around the blanket, pulling on each corner until the blanket was reasonably flat and unwrinkled, Jim finally crawled onto his blanket, snuggled down into the very dead center of it.

He folded his arms under his head and smiled contently to himself with his eyes shut. After a few moments of McCoy staring at him mutely, wondering what the hell his friend was on, Jim finally opened one eye to see McCoy still standing above him.

"Wait, where's your blanket?"

"Funnily enough," McCoy started, his voice saturated with sarcasm, "my telepathy isn't working too well right now." He punctured his comment with a roll of his eyes before finishing, "I didn't know I needed one."

"Well, go upstairs and get one," Jim blinked innocently as though it were the most obvious suggestion in the world.

"Fuck no," McCoy snorted. "I'm tired. Besides, you have what appears to be God's blanket. Move over and let me use yours."

Jim sighed as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders and bitched for a few moments as he scooted himself to the left, allowing ample space for McCoy to join him.

The two men lay there on the surprisingly thick and soft blanket, shielding them from whatever crap was on the ground as they stared up at the sky, a spare star or two barely visible through the haze of the city lights.

They looked like fucking morons and McCoy wondered if Jim felt as stupid as he did right then. Probably not.

But McCoy didn't say a word. He let the minutes pass by, the silence between them more tense than companionable. At first he thought maybe Jim had fallen asleep, but a chance glance to the side showed his face illuminated under the moonlight, his open eyes gleaming. McCoy noticed the tightness around Jim's mouth, even in profile. He continued to watch his friend, his eyes taking in the deepened shadows created in the old pocketed scars dusted over the planes of his face, until Jim finally spoke.

"I want a job."

"Well, you've come to the right place," McCoy spoke out of the corner of his mouth, not really believing Jim's statement. "The employment agency is right over there, behind the clump of grass."

Jim sighed with annoyance, his eyes unblinking as he continued to stare up at the indigo sky. He slid his glance over to McCoy, lips pursed.

"You're kinda bitchy when you don't get enough sleep," he reprimanded him without any real spark in his low voice.

"You know me," McCoy shrugged awkwardly in his horizontal position. "If I'm not bitching, check my pulse."

Jim laughed, throaty and low. From this close proximity, McCoy could feel the vibrations through the ground and let a lazy grin onto his face.

"You serious about this job thing?" he asked, once he was sure Jim's annoyance had dissipated.

"Yeah, actually, I am," he admitted, a healthy amount of self-revelation clearly evident in his tone. He paused before letting out a snort of laughter, turning to face McCoy with his usual flicker in his eyes. "Shit's ridiculous, right?"

"What brought on this new life dynamic?" McCoy commented with eyebrows raised high in surprise, ignoring Jim's chuckles.

"It's only because you are tired and somewhat unaware of how stupid you sound that I am not making fun of you for saying 'life dynamic,'" Jim informed him mock-sternly.

"Answer the question," he pressed with a roll of his eyes. Damn kid.

In the dim light, McCoy could see Jim's smile fade from his face as he opened and closed his mouth a few times as though trying to decide how to start. With a shallow sigh, Jim frowned slightly, his eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"Well, it was the wedding, actually. Everyone kept asking me what I did for a living."

"Everyone?" As far as McCoy could remember (And really, who could forget a memorable night like that one?) no one had really approached Jim.

"Well, Lorelei and the bartender," he conceded, waving his fingers offhandedly.

"So?"

"The strangest thing happened," Jim said, hoisting himself up into a sitting position, his elbows resting on his now-bent knees. His position lengthened the shadows on his face as his brow blocked the moon's light. "I felt ashamed of not having a job. I mean, you work so hard all the time. As much as you bitch about your job, you enjoy it." He angled his neck, smirking, to glance back at McCoy still laying on the blanket. "Don't deny it."

"Wasn't going to," McCoy agreed, trying not to distract Jim from his inner monologue. He, too, sat up, placing the palms of his hands on the ground behind him and placing his weight onto his arms.

"You're helping people. You're doing something meaningful," he continued, turning his head to face forward again and away from McCoy. "I mean, I know you hate Treadway, but he builds houses. At the wedding, they were talking about how he made the house his parents now live in. He puts roofs over people's heads. He helps create homes. And Lorelei, she gives piano and singing lessons." He ran a harried hand through his tousled hair, pushing it away from his eyes. His voice sounded stressed, dragging out vowels, twisting with an undercurrent of frustration.

McCoy wondered if this was a good moment to interject when Jim shifted in his spot to face McCoy more directly.

"Me? What am I doing? I'm living off money the government gave to me because my dad was killed during _his_ job."

The words hung in the air, almost tangible as though McCoy could reach out and grab them, hide them.

"I feel like I'm just coasting. I guess I've been coasting for a few years now," he admitted quietly, his eyes looking away from McCoy to address the far corner of the blanket. "But it's starting to bother me."

"Didn't realize you felt this way," McCoy murmured when Jim trailed off and let him get a word in edgewise.

"That's why I left right after the wedding," Jim explained almost apologetically. "I wanted to clear my head. My way of dealing with things is to just take off, I guess." One side of Jim's mouth curved upwards, its motion carefully observed by McCoy.

"Head all cleared?" he asked, one part joking and two parts concerned.

"You tell me, doc."

Jim's smirk stayed in place on his young face, the blonde hair falling back into his eyes. McCoy shifted his weight off of his arms and crossed his legs, his hands against his denim-clad knees.

"Sounds like you're growing up," he answered sincerely before making a show of placing his hand over his heart. "My God, I think I might have a heart attack from the shock."

"Fuck you," Jim glared, but then ruined the effect by letting out an open-mouth laugh, lightly shoving McCoy's shoulder.

McCoy joined in the laughter for a moment, returning the push to Jim's side. Once Jim started to calm down, he repositioned himself back on the blanket, folding his arms behind his head. McCoy likewise lay down, feeling all at once the gravity of Jim's statement.

"So what are you going to do?"

"Get a job, I guess." The casualty of his words sounded almost eerie against the backdrop of the city noises surrounding them.

"What kind of job?"

"No freakin' clue. Only so many jobs will hire you for being really, really ridiculously good looking."

McCoy could practically hear him smiling and waggling his eyebrows and let out a snort of derision. Jim nudged him with his sneaker in retribution. Then Jim let out what seemed to be his umpteenth sigh of the night.

"You know, picking a future is hard."

"Maybe that's why you put it off for so long, you lazy ass."

Jim continued as though he had not heard McCoy's comment.

"I could be a motorcycle mechanic again," he began reasonably, but McCoy could tell by the lilt in his voice that his ideas would soon grow in grandeur. "Or become a farmer. Or a newscaster. Or a mailman or vet…" His voice was nearly childishly excited as he extended his hands towards the sky above them. "Or maybe even fly a rocket. A spaceship."

"Dream big, kid," McCoy chuckled softly. The June air pressed against him, slightly chilly, causing him to snuggle more deeply into the blanket. Well, not snuggle. More like, manly rustle into the blanket. Yeah, that sounded better.

"Could you imagine me as a magazine editor?" Jim questioned cheerfully without pausing for an answer. "Oh, I could be a fashion magazine editor." He was back to his typical over-confidence.

Thinking it was time to knock him down a peg before his head grew any bigger, McCoy made a big show of glancing at Jim's outfit (a gray hoodie with frayed cuffs unzipped to reveal a navy shirt advertising some band McCoy didn't know, pinstripe black-and-white pajama pants with yellow socks peaking out at the bottom, ending with high-top red converse)

"Would we all be required to look like you?"

"No," Jim shook his head as though it were a genuine question and not a barely-concealed insult. "I celebrate freedom of clothing expression."

"Then fine. Go for it," McCoy relented, shaking his head, wondering why he was still surprised by Jim's eccentric ways.

"How about you, Bones?" he asked, poking McCoy's side. McCoy looked at him blankly, trying to figure out the best way to translate _fuck no I don't want to be a fashion designer_ into a language Jim might actually understand. Realizing McCoy's confusion, Jim further explained.  
"Say you picked something else to do, what would it be?"

McCoy thought of rolling his eyes, of telling Jim he was an idiot, of getting up and leaving this strange fantasy career world that Jim was creating. But instead, his mind took the question into consideration, thinking over the different possibilities and scenarios Jim had just said.

"A doctor," he answered after a moment.

"Really?" Jim wondered, his eyebrows disappearing under his hair, silently urging McCoy to continue.

McCoy nodded slowly, his eyes shutting comfortably as he continued explaining.

"In any situation, I can only see myself as a doctor. They're gonna be around forever and as long as there are fuck-ups like you who get their ass handed back to them in various degrees of alarm, doctors are going to be needed."

"I guess so," Jim mused thoughtfully. He shifted himself on the blanket, ending up closer to McCoy. The older man could feel their knuckles against each other, the heat from Jim's body radiating. "I seem to always need a doctor," he needlessly admitted, "so I guess wherever I would end up, I would have to have a doctor there. For any such occasions."

His last statement was a bit out of place and strange, but McCoy attributed that to his tiredness which was quickly taking hold of his body.

"Hmm," he answered unintelligently as he felt his body become heavier and his muscles relaxed. McCoy barely registered Jim's movement a few inches away from his head, probably turning to face him better.

"Okay, Bones," Jim said quietly after a second of watching McCoy. "Time for you to go inside and go to sleep."

"No," McCoy mumbled, his tongue thick in his mouth as he protested absentmindedly.

"No? Are you fucking kidding me? You've been bitching like a little girl this whole time about how tired you are." His annoyed tone could not hide the real amusement underneath.

"Just ten more minutes out here. Then I'll go inside." Or at least, McCoy thought he said that. He was in and out of sweet, blissful sleep. His head fell to the side facing Jim, a more comfortable position for his neck and his nose was quickly met with the soft cotton of Jim's hoodie.

"Promise?" Jim whispered.

"'Course," McCoy breathed, sleepier still with Jim's musky scent filling his senses.

"I bet you always keep your promises."

Low and sad. McCoy, in his barely alert state, wondered about Jim's abandonment issues if he was this upset that someone was falling asleep on him instead of talking to him.

"Yep," he might have said, his lips barely moving as he fell further and further from consciousness.

"Damn."

Jim's empty chuckle was the last thing he heard before he felt the weight of Jim's arm rest against his shoulder and he fell asleep.

* * *

His back hurt.

He was getting too damn old to sleep on the hard ground. Jim was supposed to wake him up and make him go back to his apartment, but instead the lout fell asleep himself. They didn't make it back to the apartment until nearly five in the morning when they had woken up to the early morning sounds of traffic a few blocks away.

They had made their way to McCoy's apartment, Jim falling half-dead onto the couch and McCoy collapsed onto his bed, snoring loudly into his pillow.

When McCoy finally reemerged out of his dreams, the room was bright with sunlight, even through the shades on the window. A quick glance at his clock informed him that it was early in the afternoon.

He glanced down a few feet at the foot of his bed to see Jim still knocked out on the couch, his mouth wide open and snoring.

_The Great Jim Kirk in all his glory. How flattering_, McCoy thought amusedly to himself as Jim snorted once before shifting in his sleep to a more comfortable position. His mouth was still wide open.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he stretched out his muscles, trying to ease the tension in his back. Once he realized he was fighting a losing battle, he stood from the bed and walked over to the kitchen area, his stomach grumbling. There wasn't much in way of good food sans a few instant meals he'd been eating for dinner lately. Hmm. Maybe it was time to go shopping.

Eh, he'd do it later. Right now he just wanted to head over to the convenience store down the street and pick up some breakfast and the day's newspaper. He rummaged through his desk drawers until he came across a pad of post-its and pen.

_Getting breakfast. Don't leave._

He frowned to himself for a moment, staring at the message. Then he crumpled it up and threw it away, pushing it down into the trash can just in case Jim decided to go through the trash (Which, knowing Jim like he did, it was possible.).

Pressing the pen back to the post-it, he rewrote _Getting breakfast_ before peeling it away from the pad and placing it gently on Jim's nose.

McCoy entertained himself for a few seconds, watching the paper flutter from the puffs of air omitting from Jim's open, slack mouth. Surprisingly enough, the novelty of watching Jim sleep did not lose its appeal as quickly as McCoy would have expected.

Shaking his head, he tried to rid himself of the strange notion and stood up as abruptly as possible without bothering Jim. He figured he should leave the apartment before Jim woke up and saw him sitting there.

He wouldn't know how to explain that one.

* * *

McCoy couldn't help but notice that Jim's visits were getting longer and longer each time he stayed in San Francisco. Not that he minded. It was nice to have the company, to have someone waiting for him when he got home from work. Although, admittedly, Jim wasn't always in the apartment when McCoy came back to the tiny apartment, feet hurting, nerves frazzled, and medic bag heavy on his shoulder. He would leave notes as to where he was and, depending on how playful Jim may have been feeling that day, clues that McCoy was instructed to decipher. Jim had the strangest personal stream of consciousness (A newspaper article with a girl who looked vaguely like Jennifer Aniston, the word "boy" circled in a page of a magazine left next to the newspaper with a Chinese symbol next to it which took McCoy a while to figure out meant "opposite", and a printed out advertisement for a girls' boarding school in the fifties finally prompted McCoy to realize that Jim was at a department store.)

After he had been there for a week, he even offered to help pay rent ("I'm sick o' moochin'!") which McCoy did not so much as accept freely as get caught in a headlock by Jim until he grudgingly allowed Jim to give him a check.

Another week had gone by and Jim was still happily in the apartment. McCoy was a bit surprised, having thought Jim would have left by then to go off to Fez or Oklahoma or something. He kept his mouth shut though because it was much more enjoyable to eat meals with an actual living, breathing person instead of while reading a medical journal. The autoimmune disease journals were all covered in Italian sauce stains and he didn't want to subject any more journals to the same fate.

And so Jim stayed. It may have been a little cramped in the apartment, but no worse than his days in college in a tiny dorm with a slob of a roommate. All in all, it was… nice.

One particular night (it was a Wednesday), Jim and McCoy sat on the couch, watching _Aviator_ and if McCoy had been paying more attention to Jim than the movie, he would have noticed a twisted expression on Jim's face. It wasn't until the credits were rolling that Jim rose from the couch, stretching his long legs, and walked over to the sink to get a drink of water.

His movements seemed more calculated than casual and were inexplicable enough to cause McCoy to watch the otherwise mundane activity. Once Jim was certain that McCoy was giving him his utmost attention, he smirked and walked over to the furthest wall in the apartment. He leaned against it with blazing nonchalance, running a sweeping hand through his hair as he tossed the water back into his mouth.

Instead of swallowing like, you know, a normal person would, he kept the water in his mouth, storing it in his cheeks like a chipmunk. Then with a wink in McCoy's direction (_This isn't going to end well_, McCoy thought, raising an eyebrow.), he spit out the water like he was a fucking fountain. The stream of water soared through the air, splattering on the opposite wall.

Well. Okay then.

McCoy looked away from the water dripping down his wall onto his threadbare carpet to stare at Jim. Jim stood there proudly, hands on his hips like he should have been wearing a golden cape and spandex underwear.

"Care to explain that one?" McCoy drawled, not really sure if he should be angry or amused.

"You have a tiny apartment."

Well, no shit Sherlock.

McCoy told him as much, gesturing around the room as though Jim hadn't known its contents for months.

"You aren't paying alimony anymore. You can afford to move."

"No."

"Yes."

"Dammit Jim, no."

"Oh, come _on_! I just spit water from one end of the apartment to the other. That's a shitload of water on your wall. It's not like only a little splatter made it to the other side. Shitload of water, Bones. I won't say it again."

"Maybe you're just a good spitter."

"…Is that even a word? Did you really just say that? Is this real life?"

Their argument continued for a grand total of ten minutes while Jim displayed remarkable arguing techniques (McCoy wondered if he had been on the debate team in high school. Eh, too dorky. He didn't know one debate team member who got as much ass as Jim claimed to have gotten during high school.). McCoy had a multitude of reasons to which Jim refuted them all, his cockiness growing to epic proportions as McCoy faltered.

Finally, Jim silenced McCoy, moving closer on the couch until their faces were only a few inches away. McCoy could not look away from searing blue narrowed with determination and a smirk decorating Jim's unshaved cheeks.

"Are you really so desperate to always argue with me that you are willing to compliment my spitting abilities? Is this really an argument that you want to win?"

* * *

"So what do you think?"

Gaila rested her pointed chin onto the palm of her hand, her perfectly manicured fingers curled onto the apple of her lightly rouged cheek. With her free hand, she gestured to the café table, her emerald bangles jingling from the slight movement. McCoy followed the sweep of her hand onto the tabletop which was currently covered with papers and floorplans of nearly every variety fanned out over the entire surface.

Jim had recommended Gaila as a realtor after he had met her during the past New Year's party, despite McCoy's initial belief that the two of them had only fooled around. ("Did you think I just grabbed a girl by her shoulders and make out with her? C'mon, the art of conversation isn't _that_ dead.") The three of them had looked at apartments over the greater part of San Francisco. McCoy kept glancing at the pro-con lists he had made up for each building, trying to determine which, if any, of the apartments would be the best option. He had calculated prices, location (how close it was to the hospital or to any parks for when Joanna came to visit), the utilities, everything.

Jim, of course, had contributed by telling McCoy in loud booming voices where he could stash some porn in each room. Gaila had laughed. McCoy had not.

McCoy frowned thoughtfully, peering over the papers for apartment number four. Gaila perked up in her seat at his expression, her impossibly green eyes (Those had to be colored contacts. There was no way irises could be _that_ green.) trained on his movements. She brushed an errant red curl away from her cheek before crossing her arms onto the table.

McCoy opened his mouth to ask about renovation costs for the kitchen when Jim made his presence known.

"Actually, Gai, I don't think any of these are what we are looking for," Jim quipped from his seat, sitting reverse in the chair so that he straddled the back of it.

"What? How the hell would you know? And what do you mean, 'we'?" McCoy asked, baffled by Jim's assured comment.

"I just don't think it suits our needs," Jim tried to explain, his voice exasperated.

McCoy was held back from making another retort by Gaila who cleared her throat loudly enough that the two men looked at her with a bit of alarm.

"You know what, why don't I let you two talk and give Leonard some time to think about it?" She did not wait for them to answer in the affirmative and instead extracted the papers she needed from the piles, leaving the rest for McCoy to take and peruse at his leisure. She placed the papers into her briefcase and extracted a few crisp bills to cover the cost of her coffee and baguette.

Snapping her sleek briefcase closed, Gaila stood from her perch on the wrought iron seat. One hand clasped tight around the handle of her briefcase, the other brushed invisible crumbs from the front of her floral skirt and viridian top.

As the men stood, she produced a business card from the inside of her shirt (She only did that with her male customers. If they were female, then the cards came from the briefcase. Apparently she had told Jim that on the day they met, much to his amusement.) and handed it to McCoy. She made a habit of giving him a new card whenever they parted for the day despite his initial attempts to remind her that he still had the first one. He could probably wallpaper whichever new apartment he chose with all the cards she had given to him. As Jim kept saying, a girl's gotta advertise.

They shared their good-byes as Jim gathered up the remaining papers. Gaila scrunched up her nose and gave them both a little close-lipped smile, a habit McCoy noticed she did often, and then turned on her smart heels and walked through the door into the bustling traffic outside the café.

McCoy waited until she had disappeared into the crowd of pedestrians before turning to face Jim, greatly resisting the urge to smack him upside his dumb head.

"And what exactly is it that you deem unworthy about these apartments?" he hissed, leaning in towards Jim's personal bubble. Not that Jim seemed to care much.

"The price," he answered simply, shrugging his shoulders as he drank the remnants of his coffee.

"What about the price?" McCoy calmed down a smidgeon, cautious about what Jim meant. "Too high? Are you sure we're getting the best deal?"

"Trust me, she owes me," the younger man reassured him, the hint of a shit-eating grin on his smug face.

"For what?" McCoy asked before noticing the raunchy grin. He held up a hand to stop Jim from speaking. "You know, never mind."

Jim chuckled, throwing a sugar packet from the edge of the table towards McCoy.

"Anyway, it's not too high," Jim negated with an airy wave of his hand. "Quite the contrary. I think we could afford to go higher."

"Again with this 'we' crap," he commented, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I'm just saying," Jim said evenly, running his hands across the tabletop before him, "I think I should contribute to the rent."

Huh. That was interesting.

"Why the hell would you help pay?"

"Well, I figure I'll be living there, too," he commented with another shrug. "It's only fair."

A significant amount of time passed between them as Jim's smile grew wider and wider as his statement finally sunk into McCoy's brain.

"What?" he managed to spout out unintelligibly.

"Yeah," he nodded enthusiastically, clearly glad that McCoy had caught on so quickly. "Moving in. You and me. Roommates. Should be swell."

Crinkle-eyed smile, Jim was positively beaming, his white teeth flashing like a movie star's. He was quiet for a second, soaking in the moment as McCoy stared bemused, before adopting a more business-like tone.

"Anyway, that brings me to the next 'unworthy' quality of these apartments. They only have two bedrooms each," he scoffed, shaking his head disapprovingly at the pile of papers. "We would need three. One for you, one for moi, and Joanna makes three. For when she visits, you know."

McCoy nodded dumbly. It was his daughter, for Christ's sake. Of course he knew. But it was strangely sweet for Jim to think of it.

"So it's settled," Jim ended with a tone of finality, clasping his hands together in front of his chest with a resounding _clap_. "We'll start looking for a three bedroom apartment in the next price range up. If you need a few months to get back on track after the whole alimony nightmare, I can shoulder more of the rent. You can always pay me back later," he continued, taking advantage of McCoy's stunned silence to steal the scone from the plate in from of the older man.

"Why didn't you say anything about us living together before?" he said when he finally regained the ability to string words together.

"I didn't think of it until two days ago," Jim shrugged, talking around a mouthful of blueberry scone. Then his brow furrowed and he shook his head. He swallowed the mound of food in his mouth before continuing. Thank God. "Wait, no. That's a lie. I've been thinking about it for a while, but I didn't fully decide until two days ago."

He put the scone close to his mouth as though to take another bite, but pulled it away at the last second to look McCoy closely in the eye. "Are you okay with this?"

For a moment, McCoy wondered if Jim was asking about whether or not it was okay that he took McCoy's scone. But the blues of his eyes were a bit more sincere, a sign that this was about more than food.

"Yeah," he heard himself answering without really understanding what he was saying. He paused, mentally going over the positive and negative sides to living with Jim. More positive than negative. Actually, he couldn't really think of any negatives. Which was strange, because he was a highly cynical, critical, pessimistic, grumpy old man. Just ask anyone who's met him. "Yeah, I guess I am. Just a little surprised. So what happened to the whole career thing?

"Bones, Bones, Bones," Jim laughed, his mouth open and his teeth stained light purple from the fruit in the scone. "You worry too much. I've got it all covered."

"Oh, this'll be good," McCoy baited, his initial shock giving way to amusement and genuine pleasure for the new circumstances.

"It _will_ be good," he insisted seriously, but with an irrepressible smile still plastered all over his face. "I want to be a pilot."

A pilot. The word hung in the air, heavy with its importance.

"Like your dad?" McCoy said quietly, the confirmation not really needed.

Jim's smile softened briefly, brushing his lower lip across the edge of his top front teeth in a rare show of introversion.

"Yeah," he answered just as quietly, his eyes catching the light from the sconce above their small table. Then he blinked and went back to his earlier, brighter tone. "Stanford Flying Club has a pilot school and it's not too far out of the city. It's a six month program to get the license. I'll do commercial stuff for an additional six months and then I can advance from there. I've got everything all settled."

He was so excited about everything if the fact that both of his legs shaking under the table was any indication. McCoy chuckled quietly, finding Jim's enthusiasm to be cute. Like puppy dog-cute.

"Well, what are you waiting for then?"

"A place to live," he responded simply, looking up at McCoy as though waiting for his acceptance.

"Okay."

With that single word, Jim grinned so widely that McCoy was pretty sure he would strain his cheeks.

"Tomorrow we'll call up Gaila and ask about three-bedroom apartments," he promised, that infectious grin growing onto his own face.

"Awesome," Jim managed to get out, practically humming with contentment.

The two men gathered the now useless papers, leaving behind money for their food with a sizeable tip. They exited out the door, a small bell signifying their departure. Within seconds, they were in step with the ever-present crowd that wandered through the city, feeling the warmth of the summer sun above them.

"Jim?" McCoy started as they rounded the corner towards the apartment complex. He waited until his friend was actually looking at him before saying anything else. Jim's gaze was curious and unwavering on his, his pupils nearly swallowed into deep blue depths.

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of you."

* * *

McCoy made the mistake of calling the apartment "bare bones." Jim quickly provided a "well, if you really want to" response with a suggestive wink. Other than that minor eye roll, the rest of the move-in had gone without too many problems.

Sure, there were still blank spots on the walls, not enough dishes in the cupboard, curtains to be hung up, and boxes to be unpacked, but the major work had been done. McCoy's hodgepodge furniture had been settled into the house, pushed and pulled on the hardwood floors until placed in the exact right spot. They had purchased some more furniture, such as a bed for Jim who had bitched the whole time about having spent so much time on McCoy's couch.

"I have a delicate back!" he had insisted whenever McCoy mocked him about his whining.

"Why? Because you spend so much time on it?"

Jim had claimed he couldn't even be appropriately pissed off about the comment because it was too amusing.

Anyway, the bed had been assembled. Jim had tried to test his French ("I was great at speaking French in high school. The ladies loved it.") by reading the French instructions. His attempt lasted all of ten minutes before McCoy stole the instructions from him (the Spanish ones, too, just in case) and forced him to use English. Grumbling and half-hearted glares aside, Jim would be sleeping on an actual bed that night instead of on the floor, surrounded by bed parts.

It was nearly ten at night when both men called it a day and slumped onto the couch, too tired to move. Jim shifted his legs until his feet rested on McCoy's lap. He grunted, but could not muster the energy to push the feet away.

Jim extended his hand out towards the remote on the floor between the couch and the television set, but it was just out of grasp and he seemed to be as exhausted as McCoy. Instead, the two men just sat there, staring at the blank television.

"We should get a bigger television," Jim said, his voice echoing off the nearly bare walls. "Big screen. Flat screen."

"Let's focus on getting the things we need first," McCoy answered, leaning his head against the back of the couch, closing his eyes.

"Like what?"

McCoy sighed before shifting on the couch, reaching into his back pocket for The List.

"Paint."

"What rooms are we painting?"

"All of them. I figure we should do that before we have too much furniture. No sense getting paint all over it and making it look like crap."

"Tangerine orange kitchen?" Jim perked up, his feet dancing in McCoy's lap.

"Fine," he conceded, not really caring what color the kitchen would be. Jim smiled happily to his right which was good enough for him. "We also need furniture for Joanna's room. I'll call her tomorrow to ask her how she wants it decorated."

"Bet you five bucks she wants polka dots."

"You're on," McCoy grinned, mentally making a note to convince Joanna to want anything but polka dots. Five dollars wasn't a lot to lose, but Jim's bigheadedness was not something to be trifled with.

"What else do we need?" Jim urged, nestling further into the corner of the couch between the back cushions and the armrest.

"Food for the kitchen. More plates for the kitchen," he read off the sheet of paper in front of him, his eyes unfocused since his glasses were still packed away in one of the boxes in his new bedroom. "An actual kitchen table with real chairs."

"What's wrong with what we have?" Jim asked, blue eyes wide with question.

"A card table and folding chairs?" McCoy threw a look at him that clearly said, "You're an idiot if you think that's acceptable."

"Hmm, good point," he mused, nodding his head. "What else do we need?"

"Light bulbs and batteries."

"Oh yeah, that reminds me," he started, leaning up from his resting spot to look inquiringly at McCoy. "Are there batteries in the smoke detectors?"

"Yeah, I checked them all while you were trying to be Pepe Le Pew," he teased, one half of his mouth upturned in a smile.

"Fuck you." Jim's foot nudged itself against McCoy's thigh in a pathetic excuse for a kick.

"We need to get shampoo," McCoy continued as though Jim had not spoken.

"We already have shampoo," the younger man stressed, nudging McCoy's thigh again.

"We are not just using the little shampoos you've taken from hotels."

"There is nothing wrong with them."

They continued arguing and making adjustments to The List until neither of them were awake enough to speak. Their sleep-slurred words trailed off slowly until they both drifted off into dreamless sleep, still sharing the same couch.

Day one in their new apartment could certainly be counted as a success.

* * *

"Honey, I'm home!"

"Shit!" McCoy cursed loudly. Jim's sudden cry had startled him and caused him to drop the curtain rod on his foot.

"Well, gee. Nice to see you, too," Jim said behind him with a certain level of indignation in his voice.

"Not you, dumbass," McCoy rolled his eyes as he bent down to get the rod. "I accidentally dropped this on my damn foot." He brandished the offending object in the air so that Jim could see it from where he was in the kitchen.

He could hear Jim hum in understanding as the younger man bustled around the kitchen, putting the food away in the refrigerator that he had gone out to buy at the grocery store. McCoy stuck the rod into the slot, carefully removing his hands to make sure the curtains were in place. When the rod didn't fall onto his feet again, he began shifting the fabric around to make sure it was all even.

Pulling away from his handiwork, he looked at it critically to make sure it was fine.

"It's fine, Bones," Jim called from the kitchen as though reading his mind.

"I still think the apartment is empty," McCoy commented, still facing the curtain instead of his friend.

"Eh, we can just get inflatable furniture."

McCoy laughed and finally turned away from the curtains to see what Jim had gotten from the grocery. The laughter died in his throat when he saw that Jim had apparently gotten a haircut as well.

Hearing the abrupt end to the laughter, Jim looked around curiously at McCoy before comprehension dawned on his face and he ran his fingers rakishly through his newly cropped hair.

"Yeah, I registered for pilot school today and they suggested I get the hair out of my face," he explained, grinning. "Do I still look like a damn hippie?"

The golden hair no longer flopped around and instead was cut closer to the scalp, maybe only an inch or two in length. Jim, or rather the hairdresser, had used some sort of gel to part it cleanly onto one side.

"You look… older."

Jim blinked once or twice in confusion before smiling offhandedly and turning away to place cereal boxes in the cupboard above the stove.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, McCoy joined him in the kitchen to help put away the groceries. He wondered, not for the first time since he and Jim decided to be roommates, what other changes he could expect.

* * *

_I hope you guys enjoyed this most recent installment. To clear up any confusion (my sister was a bit befuddled when she read the chapter), Jim's new haircut makes him look like he did in the movie._

_Also, just as a heads up, I am currently in the middle of a family emergency. If I don't respond to your reviews for a while, it's because I'm with my family and away from my home and computer. I will respond as soon as I get the chance to, I promise._

_As always, thank you for reading. :)_


	12. of Groceries and Fights

_First of all, I want to thank everyone for their concern/sympathy for my family emergency. Thankfully, it's all settling down now and things are starting to get back to normal. I genuinely appreciate everyone's understanding. :D You all rock._

_**Notes**: This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. I'm not sure what sort of "verse" it is yet, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know! Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating. _

_**Disclaimer**: Yep. Still not mine. Is this really even necessary anymore? I also do not own anything else mentioned here. Well, I mean, I own some shaped macaroni, but I don't own the rights to it. Yeah, now that that's been cleared up._

* * *

"We need food, Jim," McCoy said while staring inside of their pathetically empty refrigerator.

"Why?" he called out from his spot on the couch where he was watching some awful daytime television show. What grown man with any kind of self-respect would watch a soap opera?

"Because I will die if I have one more meal from Wendy's," he answered, shutting the door to the fridge so emphatically that the watermelon magnet fell off and the crayon picture Joanna had mailed him drifted to the floor.

"Fine. Then we can go to Five Guys," Jim shrugged, his eyes riveted to the screen in front of him as the heavily made-up actors kissed passionately in front of their fireplace.

McCoy grumped and bent down to pick up Joanna's artwork, returning it to its spot on the fridge.

"Jim! I am a doctor and I know exactly the negative consequences of eating greasy foods too often."

Jim made an affronted noise from the back of his throat and maneuvered around on the couch to face McCoy with indignation written all over his face.

"You pulled the doctor card! No fair!"

"I will make you watch _Supersize Me_!" McCoy threatened, crossing his arms over his chest and refusing to acknowledge the absurdity of the moment.

"It can't be that bad," Jim drew out his words, rolling his eyes dramatically as he flopped down, suddenly hidden from McCoy's vision as the back of the couch blocked his view.

"You will get fat," he warned him in a firm, even tone of voice that he used when advising his unwilling patients. "And then your ass won't look good in jeans anymore."

Aw, shit. Did he really just say that out loud?

"Wait," came the disembodied voice from the couch. Jim reemerged, looking over the back of the couch with a shit-eating grin plastered on his young face. "You think my ass looks good in jeans?"

"Dammit, Jim."

In the end, McCoy managed to convince Jim to go to the store so it was at least somewhat worth the slip up.

* * *

Food shopping with Jim was an event. Granted, almost any activity with Jim began an extreme event, one comparable to an Olympic sport.

McCoy grabbed a cart when they first got to the supermarket, but Jim had quickly intervened and offered to maneuver it instead. McCoy soon realized that it wasn't so much an offer of kindness as it was a chance for Jim to be in control.

Naturally.

The two men spent the better part of the hour going up and down the aisles with McCoy nose-deep in the sales paper, trying to decide what brand of pasta would save them the most money. The two of them debated greatly over what sort of cereal was the best (Jim: Lucky Charms. McCoy: Cinnamon Life.), if one or two percent milk was better, and whether or not it was worth it to buy the bagels of questionable age. Jim had been particularly difficult in the produce section as he more or less fondled all the cantaloupes until he found the one he wanted.

They were doing their final sweep of the store and McCoy had basically given up on reprimanding Jim for tossing in impulse buys. Besides, those chocolate cookies had looked pretty damn good.

Halfway down the pasta aisle, Jim sped up a little while exclaiming, "We need macaroni and cheese, please!"

"Are you five?" McCoy asked with sarcastic indulgence as he watched Jim contemplate the many boxes on the shelves.

"God no," Jim chuckled before glancing over his shoulder to give McCoy a wicked glance. "If so, a lot of people are pedophiles."

McCoy chose to ignore that as Jim laughed to himself and began tossing a few boxes of the shaped macaroni into the already-filled cart.

"No, get the regular kind," McCoy chided, reaching into the cart to pick up the offending boxes.

"What? No!" The way Jim cried out and stared at him, it was as though McCoy had just sprouted a third head. You know, after sprouting the second one. "Shaped is the best!"

"But there are less shaped macaroni in the box," McCoy said, trying to reason with the astonished man-child gaping at him from the other side of the cart. "See, the way they are shaped, you can fit more regular ones in the box. The awkwardly shaped ones take up more room and do not compress as well—"

"Oh, God. Shut up," Jim interrupted, holding his hand up as his facial expression revealed horrified shock. "You are really not this old, are you? We are getting shaped macaroni, no questions." He took the boxes from McCoy's hand and put them back in the cart, protecting them with his own hands so that McCoy wouldn't revoke his action. "You need this. It's like medication for you."

Jim spoke like a therapist, his tone of voice like a father placating his child. McCoy deadpanned before gruffing and walking away from the cart.

"I'm only agreeing to this because we have coupons for the Pokémon-shapes."

"Sh'marvelous," Jim said, the grin clear in his voice. "My favorite kind."

Once they had finally made it through all the aisles, picking up a spare item here and there, such as applesauce (or as Jim liked to call it, awesome-sauce), they made their way to the checkout lines.

"Ooh, Snickers!" Jim exclaimed, his blue eyes bright with excitement as he reached out for the coveted candy.

McCoy smacked his hand away, with a reproving frown that evoked a scoffed response from Jim who pouted and crossed his arms.

"You don't need it and they're overpriced here," the older man said, refusing to give in to Jim's childish behavior.

"You are such a killjoy," Jim muttered as he dug in his pockets for his credit card.

The cashier smiled amusedly at the two men as she totaled up their food.

"Well, aren't you two just the cutest couple?" she remarked as the men got into a hitting fight, smacking each other's hands as Jim continued to reach out for the Snickers.

…uh-whah?

McCoy stood stock-still, his eyes bulging as he stared at the cashier's bubbly smile. Before he could correct her though, Jim swung his arms around McCoy's shoulders and landed a wet, sloppy kiss on his cheek. McCoy could feel the scruff of Jim's day-old beard scratch his face and something stirred in his stomach.

Misinterpreting the feeling as disgust or confusion, he pushed Jim off of him and swiping his cheek with the back of his hand.

"Aw, look what a big show he makes in wiping off his cheek," Jim cooed with saccharine sweetness. He adjusted his body slightly with his back was to the cashier so that he could grin devilishly at McCoy. Then he placed a hand on McCoy's upper arm and clenched hard enough so that McCoy got the hint to stay quiet.

He tried to grin at the cashier, but had a feeling he looked more menacing than anything else. However, she was too busy laughing at their antics to really notice his expression.

Feeling dazed, he grabbed several bags of groceries and followed a beaming Jim out the door as the younger man wished the cashier to have a nice day. McCoy waited until they had completely exited the building before looking at his friend in bewilderment.

"Why the fuck did you kiss me?" he asked simply, not really sure how else to state the question.

Jim grinned and slowed his walk to a stop, placing the bags on the ground. He kept his eyes trained on McCoy, the blue glinting in the San Francisco sunlight, as he pulled a Snickers bar from his jacket pocket.

"With magic tricks," he explained with smugness, "it's all about the misdirection."

Then he tucked the candy bar away, picked up the bags, and the two men started their trek back to the apartment once more.

"Did you shoplift that?" McCoy started, unconsciously using the same tone of voice he used on Joanna whenever she had done something wrong.

"Yeah," Jim shrugged, looking amused by McCoy's reaction. "I mean, if I had given it to Lissie, then you would have noticed and would've bitched about my buying it."

Wait. Backtrack.

"Who's Lissie?" McCoy asked, momentarily diverted from the conversation at hand.

"The cashier! It was on her nametag. Get with the program, Bones!" Jim emphasized energetically, still clearly in good spirits from the trip to the grocery store. Though, for whatever reason, McCoy didn't know.

"So you stole from the store."

"Yes," Jim announced, his tone suddenly taking a dramatic air, his voice growing with passion with each listing. "And in all my years of living, that is clearly my deepest sin. Not the wasteful spending of my money. Not my insatiable sexual needs in high school. Not the many drugs I've done or the fights I've started. It was this memorable moment when I stole the ninety-nine cents Snickers bar." He allowed a moment of silence, his eyes shut tight as his face screwed up in extreme pathos. When he finally spoke again, his voice was low and tense. "I must find a church, confess, and repent my evil ways."

"Fucker," McCoy said, rolling his eyes.

Jim opened one eye to see McCoy walking away, not bothering to look at him. Jim laughed fully, his teeth white and shiny.

"Or, you know, the other option is that I just wanted to kiss you," he said slyly once his laughter subsided.

"Fucker," McCoy repeated, though this time with less conviction. Despite his best efforts to ignore Jim's irrational behavior, he found himself glancing over at the younger man who was still smiling beside him.

"Now c'mon," Jim said, leaning over slightly to nudge McCoy with his elbow. "We have to get these back to the apartment and we don't have a car. Cheapskate," he added under his breath.

"We've been over this," McCoy groaned, sick of Jim's repeated complaints about the damn car. "It wouldn't do well for our credit after just getting the apartment. Maybe in a few months or so."

The two continued to amiably bicker and debate the rest of the way home, the whole kiss-debacle forgotten. Well, mostly forgotten.

* * *

Jim had been acting strange lately. He spent a lot of time watching McCoy. Sometimes he watched McCoy when he thought the doctor didn't realize, but sometimes he was very blunt about watching him. He kept his eyes trained on him during random intervals around the apartment.

At first, McCoy hadn't minded. He was used to Jim's strange ways and oddities. But after a while, he felt a burning need to address it.

"Why the hell are you staring at me all the damn time?" he finally said one evening when they were cleaning up after dinner.

He stood at the sink and handed a newly washed salad bowl to Jim who took it in his hands and began to absent-mindedly dry it as he looked at McCoy contemplatively.

"You look nice today," he answered simply once the bowl was dried to his satisfaction and placed on the island behind him to be put away later.

"What? I remind you of one of your former sexual conquests?" he snapped, using a harsher voice than necessary. He didn't really know what compelled him to say that. Or why he even said it so strangely. It's not like Jim's staring really bothered him that much. It was just… a little unnerving.

Jim stared at him, his eyes wide and staggered. Then his jaw clenched as he threw the towel onto the counter and crossed his arms imposingly.

"Think back, Bones," he answered tightly, his tone on the defensive. "When's the last time I told you about one of my conquests?"

"Just the other day, you told me about some red-haired filly in high school," he shot back, remembering with a strange tension in his stomach that almost felt like jealousy, but he knew it couldn't be that.

"Well, shit, Bones," he barked, running his damp hands feverishly through his short hair. "If you're going to dangle all of my 'conquests' from my high school days against me, then I'm never going to have a chance."

It was McCoy's turn to be taken aback. He thought about Jim's statement, turning it over in his mind but unable to understand it. His voice was less angry when he spoke again, though still charged with pent-up emotion.

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

Jim avoided his glance, staring at the wall behind the doctor as his mouth opened and shut several times as though he wasn't sure what to say. Finally he snapped it closed, his lips pursed and he suddenly looked older for a moment as he reached for the towel again, drying off some utensils in front of him.

"Just forget it, okay?" he muttered, still avoiding McCoy's gaze.

"Jim," McCoy started regretfully, hating himself for causing a scene like this for something as innocent as Jim watching him and complimenting him.

"Forget it," Jim stressed, finally tearing his eyes away from the towel to look at McCoy.

The intense blue warned McCoy that it would be best to keep cleaning in silence.

* * *

_I'm sorry._

He wrote in green highlighter on a blue Post-It because he knew Jim would appreciate the lack of use of the yellow highlighter. McCoy left the Post-It on Jim's bedroom door before leaving for his night shift at the hospital.

He returned from the hospital, tired, exhausted, and ready to just fall into his bed until his afternoon-evening shift later that day. Unsurprised by the silence in the apartment, he knew Jim had gone off to pilot school. Thursdays and Fridays, they didn't see each other much due to conflicting schedules.

McCoy dropped off his medical bag in the hallway closet, his shoulder aching after carrying it back from the hospital. He was just sleepy enough to consider Jim's proposal of getting a car. Hazy-minded with tiredness, he trudged to his bedroom.

He found a Post-It.

_It's okay. :)_

McCoy fell asleep on his bed, a smile on his face.

A week or so passed and things were back to normal. Sort of. Things had changed. There was some insignificant shift in the air, something McCoy could not define. But he was on edge, more aware of Jim than usual. He second-guessed his responses to even Jim's most basic questions, seeking a deeper meaning in everything the two of them said or did, or even what they did not say or do.

Jim's behavior did not change. Well, maybe it did. McCoy noticed all the little things Jim did now, the way his eyes followed him around or how his fingers lingered when he passed McCoy the remote. Had he always been that way? Had McCoy never noticed?

Even if he had never noticed, he couldn't bring himself to care much.

Jim broke through McCoy's musings as the sound of his rustling around in the hallway closet filled the nearby sitting room where McCoy was resting on the couch, supposedly reading a medical journal.

McCoy glanced at the clock on the wall beside him. 7:17. Jim had to catch the bus at seven-thirty to get to his pilot school which started at eight.

"A little early, aren't you?" he called over the back of couch. The bus station was on the corner near the apartment.

"I guess I'm just excited," he answered, practically squealing like a teenage girl.

Jim was going to be gone for the next few days for some program at the school that needed his full attention. He had been like a puppy, packing and eagerly telling McCoy over and over again about the program and the new flight patterns he was going to learn and everything. Apparently, he was going to bunk with his new friends he had met at the school: Montgomery Scott, Pavel Chekov, and Hikaru Sulu.

McCoy smiled to himself, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he tried to focus on the journal in his hands. He was soon interrupted by Jim's sudden presence by the couch. The doctor looked up to see Jim watching him expectantly.

"When I come back, let's go to a museum."

McCoy grunted. Museums weren't really his thing. Crying kids, annoyed parents, statutes and paintings he just couldn't wrap his mind around, little posts everywhere with facts that he had no intention of ever needing to know.

"Oh come on," Jim persuaded, correctly interpreting the grunt. "This is a big city and there's just so much to see here. I'll bet you've never left your apartment to do touristy things, have you?"

"Locals aren't tourists," McCoy answered. "If you had ever planted your ass somewhere for more than a week these past few years, you'd know that."

He didn't mean for that last sentence to sound so accusing. If Jim noticed the tone (which McCoy was sure he did because Jim noticed everything, dammit), he didn't choose to acknowledge it.

Instead, he moved over to the couch McCoy was half-lounged on, sitting way too close as always, his thigh touching McCoy's. He waited until McCoy turned to face him, looking into those blue eyes.

"When I get back, I want to go to a museum. We can go to whatever one you want," he promised, his face as hopeful as a child's.

"Fine," McCoy muttered after a moment, unable to stand up against those round eyes.

"Great!" Jim grinned like a kid in a candy store, bounding up from his seat.

The loss of warmth was surprisingly apparent to McCoy, but he kept his face straight, determined not to show it.

Jim strode across the room with his long legs, turning the corner to go out the front door.

He sighed in the emptiness of the room, unsure of what to do now that Jim was gone. Somehow, that man had managed to be a constant source of entertainment and company that McCoy was having trouble remembering what he did with his spare time before James T. Kirk randomly showed up.

When the front door didn't open and slam shut, McCoy looked back up at the entrance to the hallway, wondering what Jim was doing. He did not have to wait long for Jim quickly appeared.

"Hey, will you take ridiculously touristy pictures with me when we go to the museum?" he asked. The sparkle in his eye was proof enough to McCoy that Jim knew he was pushing it.

"Sure," McCoy relented. He wondered if he would ever be able to say no to that man-child.

Jim's expression was a mixture of amazement and glee. He nodded once and beamed brilliantly before turning to leave.

This time McCoy did hear the door slam shut and he winced.

"Told you a hundred times, don't slam the door," he grumbled into the air, knowing full well that Jim can't hear him.

* * *

In retrospect, McCoy knew he shouldn't have been too surprised. In the back of his mind, he had already prepared for Jim to return home with an injury. Hell, he even had his medic bag sitting next to him when Jim came through the front door to their apartment.

But still. It was Jim in an arm sling, a large bandage wrapped around the length of his arm, the white of his wrappings pristine against the slight tan of his skin.

He had called Jim an idiot and Jim took the insult gracefully (that is to say, he tried to deny it but failed to come up with any plausible excuse). After being reassured multiple times by the idiot in question that his cut was shallow and that the excess of bandages was just a precaution against him suing the school, McCoy finally asked him how it happened.

If he hadn't already thought Jim was an idiot…

Apparently, he and his new pilot school friend, Sulu, had thought it was a good idea to go sky diving with only the basics of training. And when McCoy asked why he did such a moronic act, Jim shrugged.

"He dared me."

"And you took him up on it? As a dare?" he asked incredulously.

Jim rolled his eyes and gave McCoy his best "have you met me" stare.

"Have you met me?" Jim reiterated vocally.

Jim had gone on to explain that Sulu's parachute was ripped and he ended up sky diving at Sulu. Thankfully, Jim's parachute was able to withstand their combined weight. They landed not-too-gracefully, but with the exception of a few cuts and bruises, no major damage had been done. McCoy figured it was about as close to a miracle as he was ever going to see.

Jim laughed for a while, regailing McCoy with the dramatic details. He had been talking for nearly an hour, the skies becoming darker and darker outside the windows around them. Finally there was a lull in his monologue during which both men sighed and collected their thoughts. Then Jim broke the atmosphere with a rather sobering statement.

"I thought we were going to die."

"Well, you clearly didn't die since you're standing right here," McCoy commented, trying to bring the humor back to the conversation. It must have worked on some level because Jim smirked.

"Maybe I'm just an over-concentrated ghost."

He held his hand out to McCoy, palm reaching out to him. McCoy wasn't sure why, but somehow his hand had a mind of its own and pressed itself firmly against the younger man's hand. It was warm and just a little calloused, slightly smaller than his own. Definitely not the hand of a ghost, but the hand of someone living and breathing and smiling just so. Just as he was about to pull away, Jim laced his fingers through his, capturing McCoy's hand from moving.

McCoy couldn't bring himself to mind that much.

"So, as I was saying," Jim continued blithely, as though their hand-holding was nothing out of the ordinary.

* * *

Well, that had been a disaster.

Alright, to recap:

A few days after Jim came back from the pilot school, he reminded McCoy about going to the museum. And by remind, it meant he whined like a little brat. ("You promised we would go to a museum!") So, to appease his friend and to make good on his promise, McCoy agreed to go to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

And it had been hell. Who the fuck decides what is or isn't art? Judging by the crap in the museum, his daughter was a fucking artistic genius from the tender age of two with her scribbles on scrap paper. He had voiced his thoughts to Jim, who, generally, disregarded McCoy's comments with a laugh and a joke about how he was just an old man.

But apparently, the awkwardness that had existed before Jim's departure for pilot school was still in play.

Jim had rebuffed McCoy's comments, acting moody and silent. His mood progressively grew worse as the hours passed in the museum. McCoy eventually got the hint and stopped complaining as it really wasn't as much fun without Jim's playful rebuttal.

But still. That tangible awkwardness was still there from the fight while they had been washing dishes. It had seemed so long ago. Was it really only a matter of a few days? McCoy couldn't figure it out.

They cut their evening at the art museum short, both of them wordlessly agreeing that it would be best to just go home and pretend that the trip never happened.

Or at least, McCoy _assumed_ they would just pretend the trip never happened. Jim, as it would seem, had other plans.

"We've been friends for a while now, right?" Jim commented pensively from his usual spot on the couch.

"Yeah. Probably close to a year now. Maybe more than year," McCoy replied from the kitchen table in the adjoining room where he was peering over medical records from the past week. He smirked before glancing over at the back of Jim's head. "Can't say I marked the day on my calendar."

Jim did not respond to the amiable teasing and only continued talking in that thoughtful voice, his head purposely facing away from McCoy.

"I bet you never expected me to stay in your life for this long."

"I never expected to see you again after elbowing you in the eye," McCoy said honestly, starting to wonder where this conversation was going.

"It's surprising we've made such a great friendship from such a strange start."

"I guess," he shrugged. Yeah. Definitely wondering where this conversation was going.

"Some people would call that fate," Jim called out, uncharacteristically lacking the usual charm he used when saying ridiculous things.

"Some people are fruits," McCoy returned, placing his pen and glasses down on the table as he gave Jim his full attention.

When Jim finally turned around on the couch to face McCoy, he had a perplexed expression etched across his young face.

"Bones, are you happy being alone?"

"I'm not alone," he protested with a hint of indignation in his tone. "I have you and Joanna."

"That's not what I mean. I don't mean a friendship or a daughter." Jim paused, licking his lips briefly and staring intently at McCoy. If it were anyone else, McCoy would have thought Jim was nervous. But Jim didn't do nervous. If anything, he was pausing for theatrics. "Don't you want something else?"

"Want what?"

Jim frowned, his face both thoughtful and frustrated. His eyes cast about the room as though looking around for the right way to explain his thoughts. After a moment, he turned back to McCoy and spoke in a more level voice.

"Did you see that couple at the museum? The ones holding hands?" He waited until McCoy nodded in recognition before continuing. "They weren't being gushy or anything, they were just talking about the different exhibits, the different facts they read. But they were holding hands and just enjoying each other's company."

"Eh, it's not always as nice as it seems," McCoy assured him darkly, thinking of Jocelyn.

He realized that Jim was just feeling lonely. It had, after all, been a while since he last went on a date, surprisingly enough. He turned back to his work, his hand hovering over his glasses when Jim called out again and distracted him.

"Hey Bones?"

"Yeah?" McCoy said wearily, removing his hand from his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"I like you."

"I like you, too," he told his friend, still pinching his nose, "but if you're going to get all mushy, we're going to need to watch some action films to balance it all out."

He looked over at Jim with a joking expression only to find the younger man staring at him more seriously than he had ever looked before. McCoy's hand fell from his face as he stared back at Jim with concern.

"That's not what I meant. I mean, I like you," he repeated, stressing the verb like it was a secret code. "Like, I like you-like you."

"You know, I think I told that to Jocelyn once in fourth grade," he said with a weak chuckle, trying to bring some humor back into the conversation. He didn't think he was ready to talk to Jim about this.

"Bones, I'm serious," Jim annunciated clearly, his tone and expression clarifying his words. He stood up from the couch and walked assuredly to the kitchen table and sat across from McCoy.

_This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't. Could it? It would explain so much._ McCoy's inner monologue continued until he finally heard himself speak.

"How long have you felt this way?" Was his voice really that husky? Was the sound really that trapped in his throat?

"Honestly?" Jim asked, raising his eyebrows. He paused once more, thinking back. "Remember that day on the subway when you elbowed me in the eye?"

"That was the first day we met," McCoy reiterated, his eyes growing wide with incredulity. "Since then?"

"No," Jim insisted, shaking his hands in front of him as a physical representation of his denial. "That's when I first thought you were hot."

McCoy waited for Jim to wink or raise his eyebrows suggestively, but he did no such thing. He just kept talking, still serious in his demeanor.

"I started to think you were pretty cool when you remembered me later that day when I called out to you. You remembered me. That means something." Jim trailed off softly, his eyes bright and hazy under the influence of the mood and the kitchen lights.

"From the first day," McCoy muttered, hardly able to believe his ears.

"Maybe," Jim relented. "That doesn't matter though, does it? I mean, I know how I feel now. That matters." His voice was strained, trying to verbally prove something that McCoy wasn't sure if he was ready to accept. "Sometimes, like when we first met and sometimes in moments like now, you make me feel like I was walking up a flight of stairs and I missed a step. And all of a sudden, my perception has been changed, my legs lock up, and my stomach falls down to my knees."

"What about the other times?" he asked, painfully aware of just how much he understood what Jim was talking about. His heart seemed to fall into his twisted, churning stomach.

"The other times, I feel differently."

There was a glimmer of his old annoyance under his confusion as McCoy thought to himself, _well obviously_.

"Differently how?" The annoyance colored his words only slightly, though Jim of course picked up on it.

"I don't know how to explain it without another simile," he admitted. "And even though you didn't make fun of me for my last simile, I know you were only just holding back a sarcastic comment." He gave McCoy a Look, one eyebrow raised accusingly.

"Just say it," McCoy sighed, prodding Jim along.

"Fine," Jim huffed, crossing his arms. A moment passed in silence as McCoy stared at Jim's face as the younger man composed his simile. Jim's face was scrunched up thoughtfully before the lines on his forehead smoothed out and he could finally speak. "Other times you make me feel like I do after a big meal. Warm, full, content."

It was quiet. The two men stared at each other, each waiting for the other to say something. McCoy couldn't feel the seat under his ass, the floor under his feet. The distance between them at the table seemed too far away and too close, all at once. And even as he was trying to understand the possibilities of that particular situation, Jim was speaking again.

"You make me want to feel like that all the time." His voice was low, quiet, sincere. Where was the brash, loud, obnoxiously funny man that McCoy was used to? He wanted that person back.

"What about you?" Jim asked, clearly not understand McCoy's contorted expression.

"Why are you telling me this now?" he responded, sidestepping Jim's question.

His avoidance did not go unnoticed by Jim if the thinning of his lips was any indication. Still, Jim answered the question, but with much bravado and gusto as a contrast to his previously calm inflection.

"Because I can't stop feeling this way!" he nearly exploded, standing up suddenly from the table. "I can't hold it in anymore. I didn't say anything when we first met because I thought you wouldn't like me that way."

"I don't," McCoy said, though the words got stuck in his throat and he really wasn't surprised at all that Jim didn't hear him.

"And then I didn't say anything because of the whole Jocelyn thing. The wedding and all." Jim began pacing in their kitchen, his eyes not really looking at McCoy anymore. McCoy instantly missed the comfort of staring into the blue and stood up from his seat almost involuntarily. "I wanted to give you space, but I just simply don't want to anymore."

With his last words, he turned around and stared at McCoy, momentarily taken aback by McCoy's standing stance. He regained his composure, his expression pleading and defensive all at once as he crossed his arms across his chest and waited for McCoy's response.

"Jim," he started slowly, his voice still catching in his throat. "I'm sorry, but I really don't like you that way."

"I think you're lying!" Jim yelled, his hands clenched into fists as they fell to his sides.

"I'm not!" McCoy insisted, all throat-catching disappeared with Jim's reaction.

This was insane, McCoy realized. All they needed was some footstomping and maybe someone sucking their thumb to make this a full-out temper tantrum.

"You call me and text me and leave me silly little Post-It notes," Jim shot at him, ticking off each item with a finger as thought to emphasis the ridiculous point he was making. "You take care of me when I'm sick, you danced with me at the wedding." Here, he paused again. Though, this time it was not for dramatic effect. McCoy watched, mesmerized, the frantic rise and fall of Jim's chest as he breathed heavily, trying to calm himself down. When he spoke again, he kept his voice even, though he did not lose any of the raw emotion from his tone. "At Christmas, right before you punched me for kissing you, you kissed me back."

"I was drunk," McCoy denied, his own voice flat except for the hint of a growl under his breath.

Jim made a disbelieving face, but continued speaking as though McCoy hadn't so much as moved a muscle.

"You made me want to change my life. I wanted to stop wasting money and start focusing on the future. You made me grow up," he announced, gesturing down at himself as though he were all grown up now. "I needed that, I needed _you_. I _still_ need you. You make me feel like I am finally doing something with my life." He stopped, took a step towards McCoy. McCoy thought about taking a step backwards to avoid Jim, but found himself unable to move, stuck staring into Jim's emblazoned eyes.

"You make me feel like I'm a good person," Jim continued, still staring at McCoy as though examining his soul. "I haven't felt like a good person in a long time." He swallowed, licked his lips. And with a rare note of desperation, he asked, "Think about it, Bones, what do I make you want to do?"

McCoy couldn't move. He couldn't speak or think or do anything except stare at Jim and breathe heavily.

Jim just stood there as he had always stood there for the past year. Arrogant, defiant, consistent, too damn smart for his own good, unpredictable, loyal, hysterical, _so-fucking-gorgeous_.

"You make me want to throw things," was all he could say in a rough whisper.

And there, in the middle of their kitchen, in the middle of their fight, McCoy moved forward. Jim took a second to respond before the two men met in the middle, grabbing each other like lifelines as their lips finally, finally met.

* * *

_Finally. Thank you for reading! As always, I would love to know what you think!_


	13. of Joanna and Gardens

_**Notes**: This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. I'm not sure what sort of "verse" it is yet, so if anyone has any ideas, please let me know! Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating. _

_**Disclaimer**: I own too many expensive textbooks for next semester, but I do not own Star Trek. Also, I do not own The Secret Garden. Confused? Well, it'll make more sense when you read it._

_I wasn't entirely thrilled how this chapter came out. I rewrote it/sections of it several times, but I don't know. It's just not my favorite of the series. I hope you all enjoy it though._

* * *

Considering they lived in the same apartment, had rooms next to one another, and shared the television and kitchen appliances, McCoy and Jim were doing a remarkable job of avoiding one another.

Really, it was rather impressive. On particularly good days, they didn't see each other except for a glance when one of them came home from work and immediately hid inside their respective bedrooms. McCoy worked extra hours at the hospital, preferring to take evening and night shifts so that he worked while Jim slept and slept while Jim went to school and wandered around the apartment. Jim, on the other hand, spent more time outside of the apartment walking around the nearby park or heading over to some of the attractions in town.

On particularly bad days, they faced the awkwardness that hung between them with silence and cold shoulders. McCoy refused to talk to Jim and though Jim tried to initiate conversation at first, even he gave up after a few days. They had reached a precarious balance consisting of as few words as possible, no eyes lingering, and no physical contact.

The morning after their kiss (Or, if McCoy was honest, multiple kisses. Open-mouthed kisses, searing lips up and down the lengths of their necks, hands everywhere, and Jim's shirt lost somewhere on the floor between the kitchen and the couch.), they awoke on the couch, still draped over one another. McCoy had woken up first, but Jim soon followed as McCoy pushed the younger man's limbs off of his body.

McCoy had hastened to make breakfast for both of them, throwing Jim's shirt behind him without looking at Jim who kept trying to talk to him and get his attention.

"Bones, can we just talk about this?"

"Do you want scrambled eggs?" was all McCoy could say in return.

It was in that moment that McCoy had realized what a mistake he had made. That this was not supposed to happen between him and Jim. That he had just let himself get caught up in the whirlwind that seemed to follow Jim around. That the feelings didn't mean anything except strong friendship.

And it was that friendship, he informed Jim in the only conversation they shared following that night of kisses, that kept them from falling apart. You don't find friendships like that every day and McCoy would be damned if he lost one like that over something as stupid as a mistake.

Jim's featured hardened, his arms frozen by his sides where he had been straightening out his shirt. He looked like he wanted to deny that it was a mistake and McCoy knew that he would say the words. So McCoy spoke before Jim could get a word in.

"Let's just forget about it, alright?"

But they couldn't forget about it. The memory colored McCoy's thoughts, actions, movements, words and he wouldn't have been a bit surprised if it did the same to Jim. It was present like a third person in the room whenever Jim and McCoy found themselves alone together. It was there, nearly tangible and choking them with its presence.

But it would go away. It had to.

* * *

"Well, fuck, Leonard," came the irritated voice through the phone. McCoy grimaced as he listened to his ex-wife snap at him. "You make such a big deal about needing to see your daughter and now when she finally has some time off from school to visit you, you're telling me that she can't come?"

"I didn't say I didn't want her to come," he argued, his eyes screwed shut in frustration as he slumped further onto his bed. "I just don't know if now is such a good time."

"Yeah, well you should have thought of that before," Jocelyn chided huffily. "I already told Joanna that she could come visit you this week, seeing as you already agreed to it last month when I talked to you about it," she reminded him pointedly. He groaned inwardly as he remembered their previous conversation. He couldn't really tell Jocelyn why he had changed his mind.

She continued, this time with sugary venom laced in her voice. "If you want to break our daughter's heart, then you do it. I don't want to be the bad guy this time."

"Okay, fine," he relented through clenched teeth. "You know I want to see her."

"Wonderful," she deadpanned, the word not matching with the sarcastic twist of her voice. Then Jocelyn took a deep breath as though to steady herself before speaking again. "She'll be there in two days. Clay's cousin, Josiah, has some business up your way, so they are going to take a plane together. Their flight should be in around three, provided that it's not late."

"Right. Got it," McCoy muttered, hearing The Plan for what felt like the tenth time. It's not like he was going to forget when his daughter was coming.

"And then she's coming home with Josiah nine days later," she continued as though he hadn't said a word.

"Yeah. I remember the plan," he insisted, trying desperately to keep the anger out of his voice. The last thing he wanted was for Jocelyn to keep Joanna away from him out of spite.

"Just making sure," she said innocently, though he could hear her distrust beneath the honeyed tones. "I'll talk to you later."

"Wait, is Joanna there?"

"She's at a friend's house and can't talk to you right now. So bye."

"Bye. Tell Lorelei I said hi." The dial tone sounded in his ear even before he could finish speaking.

McCoy sat there on the edge of his bed, idly listening to the dial tone for a moment, thinking (not for the first time that day) how thankful he was to have divorced Jocelyn. At least now when she wanted to ignore him, she just hung up the phone. When they still lived together, she would have slammed the door so hard that he would have had to spend a few hours fixing it.

With a deep breath, he turned off the phone and let the now-silent device fall down onto the comforter beside him. He stared at it, wondering how long he could sit there, avoiding the next step that needed to happen.

Unable to postpone the inevitable, McCoy stood from the bed and headed towards the closed door. When it opened, he could hear the strains of the Beatles coming from the kitchen where he knew Jim sat at the table, studying for his upcoming exams.

With all the enthusiasm of a convict walking to the gallows, he headed towards the kitchen to talk to Jim about the matter at hand.

"We need to talk," he announced as soon as he crossed through the archway to their shared kitchen.

"Oh, so now you want to talk to me," Jim returned nastily, not looking up from his papers.

Well, he did sort of deserve that.

"Don't be like that," McCoy sighed, pleading only slightly.

"And why the hell not?" Jim challenged, finally looking up from his work to stare at McCoy without any amusement on his face.

"Because Joanna is coming to visit and I don't want her to witness us acting this way," McCoy explained, sitting down at the table across from Jim.

"She's visiting now?" Jim blinked, his anger subsiding with the new information. His thick eyebrows met together in concern. "Are you sure that's such a good idea?"

McCoy sighed again and shrugged his shoulders. "I want to see my daughter and now is the only time she has off from school."

"Fair enough," Jim mused, nodding slightly. He looked away from McCoy for a moment, staring off at something behind the doctor as though trying to come to terms with himself. After a second of thinking, he turned back to McCoy with a tiny, uneasy smile. "I'll be civil. You know, I'm not the one who has problems here."

McCoy noticed the smile right away and recognized it as Jim's way of trying to make amends in light of the given circumstances. It was bait and he sure as hell was going to bite.

"Is that your way of saying 'you started it'?" he joked carefully, not letting his hopes up that maybe things really could get better between them.

"Basically, yeah," Jim answered, the smile on his face appearing a bit more natural now.

McCoy chuckled quietly, his laugh barely more than a breath that escaped between his lips.

"See?" Jim commented encouragingly. "We can get back in the swing of things."

McCoy nodded and for a moment it was as though nothing had changed. But then they both realized in the same instant that the last time they had sat at the table together like this, Jim had confessed his feelings.

So McCoy immediately sprung to his feet and back to his bedroom and swore he could hear Jim sigh of relief behind him. Or was that regret?

* * *

SHIT SHIT SHIT.

That was more or less the only thing going through McCoy's thought process.

He had just gotten off the phone with his hospital's dean, who was personally asking him to come to the hospital to work out some issues that had arisen with one of McCoy's former patients. There was absolutely no getting out of the situation.

SHIT SHIT SHIT.

He had to talk to Jim. Admittedly, things had gotten a little better between them since their last talk in the kitchen. Hmm, apparently a lot of serious talks happened in the kitchen. McCoy was beginning to feel wary of the seemingly innocent room. Regardless, the tension had lessened between them and Jim had even taken to making light jokes either about the whole debacle or just about McCoy's reaction in general.

McCoy wasn't exactly thrilled with the jokes, but it was at least better than the bitter silence that had taken over them for the past week.

SHIT SHIT SHIT.

The doctor slammed the phone receiver back in its rightful place in the living room, which caused Jim to jump in surprise where he was standing in front of the stove, making himself a grilled cheese sandwich.

"Fuck, Bones. What the hell bit your ass?" he said in way of a polite greeting.

McCoy rolled his eyes, but otherwise did not respond to the comment. Instead, he barreled on with the reason he had run into the room. "Jim, I know you basically hate me right now, but I need to ask a favor."

"You've finally come to your senses and you want me to ravish you where you stand?"

His snarky comment was followed by a dead silence as McCoy stared unmoving at Jim's cocky expression. Jim's shiteating grin slid down his face and he made a more sympathetic look.

"Too soon?" he questioned with a jerk of his head.

"Yeah, maybe a little," McCoy answered shortly.

"Right," Jim nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. "Sorry," he offered as he wiped his hands on the towel next to the sink. "So what do you want? And don't say 'you' because that will just be corny. Appreciated, but corny."

"Seriously, Jim," McCoy trailed off, this time making no attempt to hide his rolling eyes, but ignoring the twist in his stomach that usually accompanying Jim's jokes of this flavor. "I need you to pick up Joanna from the airport later today. There's a problem at work and they need me there and—"

"Say no more, Bones," Jim assured him, turning back to his grilled cheese, checking the bottom of the sandwich to make sure nothing had burned during the short conversation.

The SHIT SHIT SHIT mantra ceased in McCoy's mind as he felt certain Jim would take care of his daughter.

Really, he didn't know what he'd do without Jim. Just as he had ignored the feeling in his stomach from Jim's joke, he ignored the guilt he suddenly felt from how he had treated his friend.

* * *

It was official. The clock had never moved so slowly before. Seriously, this had to be a record. Nurse Chapel winced sympathetically every time she eyed McCoy glancing at the clocks on the walls, waiting for when he could finally get home and see his daughter. When she walked past him, she would lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, her periwinkle-tipped fingers tapping lightly in a friendly fashion as his heartbeat raced nearly beyond control.

Fuck this shit. He wanted to go home.

The patient was concerned about some medication McCoy had prescribed and on any other reasonable day, McCoy would have understood the concern. Bloodthinners were not something to be taken lightly. However, this was not a reasonable day and the patient was doing nothing more than pissing him the fuck off. Still, he kept his temper and waited out until the dean released him once all the patient's questions had been answered.

"Have fun with your daughter!" Nurse Chapel yelled after him as he rushed out the hospital. He waved back in return, but he had already headed down another hallway towards the damn exit and wasn't sure if she had seen him. Oh well. He'd talk to her some other time. Some other time when his daughter wasn't waiting for him at home.

The streets between the hospital and their apartment were normally an acceptable distance and a fairly nice walk provided it wasn't raining. Even a grump like McCoy could appreciate it under other circumstances. But this day, this special day, the scenery was nothing more than a quickly forgotten blur as he rushed home, hurriedly brushing past people and accidently hitting a fair number of people with his medical bag. Oops. Oh well.

When he finally reached the apartment, he was heavily out of breath and rested his hands on his bent knees as he reached deep within his pockets for the keys. He twisted the key in the lock and instantly heard Joanna's laughter.

Joanna's laughter. Here. At his apartment. In his home.

"Sounds like your daddy's home," he could hear Jim say cheerfully.

The patter of little socked feet made him smile as he placed his medical bag in the closet and waited for his daughter to rush down the hallway.

"Daddy!" she cried ecstatically, arms outstretched, ready for a bear hug.

"Hi there, baby," he spoke into her hair as he pulled her tiny body tight to him. "How was your flight?"

"Fine, fine," she answered, pulling away from him just enough to face him with a huge smile on her face. "Airplane food tastes funny though."

McCoy chuckled and in his peripheral vision could see Jim standing at the mouth of the hallway. He glanced up at his friend who was nodding emphatically at Joanna's words.

"That's why we're making dinner now, right Miss Joanna?"

Joanna giggled at the formal name and nodded at her father. "We're makin' alfredo noodles, Daddy. Come see."

She scampered off towards the kitchen as though she had lived in the apartment her entire life, her sloppy brown ponytail following in her wake. The two men walked after her, both smiling at the small girl. McCoy caught up with Jim and grabbed his elbow briefly. Jim turned to him expectantly, the smile slipping from his lips.

"Hey, thanks for picking her up," McCoy gruffed, too happy that his daughter was here to be embarrassed by the physical contact he had initiated.

"No problem, Bones," Jim waved it off, his smile quickly returned.

The two men stood there for a moment smiling at each other before Joanna called out to them to hurry up. Chuckling, they walked into the kitchen where Joanna had dragged a chair over to the stove to mix the noodles.

The three of them set about getting dinner together. McCoy took over the noodles, which were nearly done and heated up some frozen corn while Jim boiled hotdogs and Joanna set the table. Once she was sure the napkins had been folded correctly, she poured the drinks and soon everyone was settled at the table.

For the first few minutes of dinner, Joanna gabbed about her plane ride and how Josiah hadn't been much fun since he just did his Sudoku puzzles the whole time. McCoy and Jim listened with interest, laughing at her impressions of the seemingly dull Josiah. Then Joanna lapsed into a moment of rare silence as she savored her noodles.

They flopped off of her fork and fell with an audible splat onto her plate which of course set her off in a fit of giggles.

"You know," Jim said conversationally around a mouthful of corn, "alfredo noodles are difficult."

"What do you mean?" Joanna asked curiously, her legs swinging under the table.

"I mean, they are very difficult to make correctly. If you use too much water, they are too, well, watery," he finished lamely, for lack of a better word. "Or if you don't use enough water, they are like paste. And then they fall down on your plate like school lunches back in Iowa. Like so." He gestured to her noodles which were still on the plate where they had fallen. He looked at her with a very serious expression. "It's a very painstaking process of using the right ratio of water and noodle sauce."

Jim broke his serious expression to wink at Joanna and then slurped up a noodle so quickly that the end of it smacked him in the nose.

"You're funny, Mr. Jim," Joanna informed him with a bright smile.

"I know," Jim shrugged off the compliment. Then he glanced over at McCoy with a sly look in his eyes.

Well, if that was a metaphor for something, that was the worst one McCoy ever heard.

* * *

"Alright, Momma. Good night. I love you," Joanna spoke into the telephone from her perch on the desk that held the telephone receiver.

McCoy could just hear the strains of "I love you, too, Joanna Monster" before Joanna hung up the phone and looked at her father as though waiting for him to tell her what to do.

The arrangement was that Joanna was supposed to go to bed after she spoke to her mother and with a quick glance at the clock (9:47), it was definitely time for her to go to sleep. It had certainly been a long day for her.

"Okay, Joanna-banana!" McCoy announced, clapping his hands together. "It's time for you to go to bed."

"Alright," she quickly relented, making McCoy wonder if she was really as awake as she had claimed to be just half an hour earlier when he first told her she needed to go to sleep soon. "But only if you read me a story."

"Fair enough. Say good night to Jim," he instructed gently.

"Night, Mister Jim!" Joanna called out to the man on the couch.

"Night, Miss Joanna," Jim returned, tousling her hair as she walked past him to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face.

McCoy walked into the spare bedroom that had been decorated according to Joanna's specifications (no polka dots, thank God, so he didn't have to owe Jim anything for that bet) and pulled out the pajamas from her suitcase. He slipped them into the bathroom and when she emerged fully ready for bed, she was quick to inform him that she wanted him to read her _The Secret Garden_.

"Auntie Lorelei says I'll love it," she informed him as she handed him the book from her Disney Princess backpack before snuggling under the butterfly sheets on her new bed.

McCoy thumbed through the book, seeing that there were twenty-five chapters, each of them relatively short.

"Okay. About three chapters a night then."

Joanna made a tiny squeal of contentment and moved over so that McCoy could lie beside her.

And for the first time in far too long a time, McCoy relaxed with his daughter and read her a bedtime story. She curled up beside him, her small head against his chest as he wrapped an arm around her and began to speak in a low voice.

_When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle, everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen._

* * *

On the third day of Joanna's visit, she woke up later than the two men. They took advantage of this opportunity to make a big breakfast of pancakes to surprise her with when she got out of bed.

Jim, McCoy quickly learned, was especially apt at making pancakes shaped like different Disney characters. Mickey was easy enough, but Winnie the Pooh? The Beast from _Beauty and the Beast_? Yeah, that took talent.

Just as soon as they were finishing, Joanna emerged from her bedroom with bedhead, rubbing her eyes with her fist. Upon seeing the pancakes, she immediately perked up and sat down at the table, eyes wide as she recognized the different characters.

"Wow, that's cool!" she exclaimed, helping herself to a Tigger and an Ariel.

"I'm a Jack of all trades," Jim said, not at all quiet about his accomplishments.

McCoy shook his head in amusement as he poured his syrup over Simba.

"So, what do you want to do today, Joanna?"

She looked up innocently enough, but McCoy was familiar enough with his daughter to detect the spark in her eye.

Oh, this should be interesting.

A few hours later, McCoy found himself at Jim's pilot school for the first time since Jim had started classes. Joanna had been insistent about visiting the school after Jim had entertained her with stories of his classes. (Well, only the stories that McCoy deemed acceptable. The one about jumping out of the plane was something to hold back on, for reasons Jim pretended not to know.) It was early afternoon so the classes had all but ended. Jim had one more class at two, but he decided to skip it to spend some more time with Joanna.

"You really shouldn't be skipping classes," McCoy bickered with him in a low voice as they made their way down the entrance hall, Joanna happily humming between them.

"It's the only class I've missed," Jim responded with a snort and a wave of his hand. "And it's theory," he said as though that explained everything. "You have any idea how easy that class is? I barely even need to study."

"You're setting a bad example," McCoy hissed, glancing down at Joanna.

"Yes," Jim mockingly admitted as he headed them down another winding hallway, waving hello to some of the smiling classmates around them. "You're right. Because Joanna has seen me miss one class, this will undoubtedly put her on the wrong side of the tracks. From now on, she will fall in with the wrong crowd and end up ruining her life, working at a poor-quality nightclub to make the ends meet month to month. She'll take home her earnings to fat Ted who she lives with in sin at the trailer park, hoping that her day's pay will be enough to keep him from running off with her twelve-inch screen television. All from me skipping one class."

He looked at McCoy with a piteous look in his eyes before his usual spark reappeared and he stuck his tongue out at McCoy.

"You are incorrigible," McCoy snapped, not really amused by Jim's ridiculous claims. However, they did serve their purpose to make him stop bitching about Jim missing class.

"It's all part of my charm, Bones," Jim bragged as he opened a door to his right, leading the McCoys into a small room.

The room was narrow and long, a desk with some computers on one side and a lounge area on the other where a few men were sitting.

"You are cheating, Meester Scott. I do not appreciate it," said the slight man with an unbelievably thick Russian accent.

"I'm not cheating," the man across from him stated with an equally strong Scottish accent. "I'm playing like I should and you're just being a sore loser. And I'm telling you for the last time, it's Scotty."

"No. You are cheating," the first man insisted. "I do not like it and I do not like you. I will not play with you any longer."

"Hey guys!" Jim cut across the argument, stopping the Scottish man from responding.

The three men looked up from their card game, placing their cards face down on the table.

"Hello, Captain," they greeted in various levels of cheerfulness.

"Captain?" McCoy mouthed to Jim with a single raised eyebrow.

Jim just grinned and shrugged as if to say, _I can't help it if I'm that good_. McCoy shook his head good-naturedly. He was going to have to get Jim out of this place if there was any self-humility left to salvage in his friend.

"What's going on?" Jim questioned, gesturing between the three men as he moved ahead of McCoy and Joanna to greet his friends.

"Meester Scott is cheating," the Russian blurted out indignantly before anyone else could say anything.

"I am not cheating," the older man denied, an amused look on his face. "The little kid is just getting all bent out of shape about losing."

"I am not a little kid!" the younger man practically screeched, his gray eyes bulging out of his flushed face.

"Relax, Pavel," the Asian man sitting between the other two said, placing a comforting hand on the Russian's shoulder. "You're not a little kid.

"_I_ know zat," he responded brusquely, his arms crossed. "_I'm_ not the one who needs to be told zat."

"You guys are a mess," Jim chuckled, eyeing the expressions on everyone's faces. Joanna crept up behind Jim and took his hand in hers, curious as to what was going on. Jim looked down fondly at the little girl, a slight smile on his lips that made McCoy's heart skip a beat. Jim looked back up at the three men sitting at the table. "Anyway, I have some guests today. This is Bones and his daughter, Joanna," he introduced, pointing at each of them in turn. They all smiled at Joanna, but glanced up at McCoy with curiosity etched deeply in their faces.

Jim pointed to the first man. "This is Chekov."

"Hello," he muttered, staring at McCoy unabashedly.

Chekov looked younger than the others, his body slight and his hair a mess of tangled honey-brown curls. His face gave a hint of arrogance, but it wasn't the same wild streak as Jim's. It was more subdued and made him purse his lips occasionally. McCoy assumed the perceived arrogance was due to his younger age and willingness to assert his skills.

"And this is Sulu and Scotty," Jim finished pointing to the other two men.

"Hey!" Sulu greeted friendly, his face nearly splitting with a grin.

Sulu was tall and lean, something McCoy could tell even with him sitting down. His posture was relaxed, and his almond-shaped eyes were warm and fringed with long lashes. Scotty sported a ruddy face and a broad grin. He was clearly the oldest of the bunch, his russet hair thinning on the top of his round head.

"Afternoon, lass," he said, the first of the three to direct his attention to Joanna instead of watching McCoy intently. To be honest, the curious looks were starting to unnerve McCoy who wondered what exactly Jim had told these men about him.

"Good afternoon, Scotty," Joanna responded politely, clearly entertained by the nickname Scotty had given her.

"See, this girl is nine years old and she's already smarter than you," Scotty teased Chekov, winking at Joanna.

"I'm not nine!" she protested, laughing through her fingers. "I just turned eight."

"Really?" Scotty said, stressing out the word comically and stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Well, I could have sworn you were older. You look so mature."

Joanna giggled and blushed at the comment, clearly taken with the Scotsman. She turned towards Jim, burying her face into his hip in playful embarrassment. Jim chuckled and rested a hand on the top of her head, gently stroking her hair.

McCoy briefly wondered how he had gotten to be so good with kids when Chekov's accent broke through his thoughts.

"So you're Bones," he said bluntly, giving him a once over. His tone of voice suggested that it really wasn't a question. "We've heard a lot about you."

"Pavel!" Sulu groaned, glancing apologetically at McCoy who stood wary, rather unsure of what to say.

"What?" Chekov asked, his eyes wide and facing Sulu. "It's true."

"Now's not the time," he chided, rolling his dark eyes. With a shake of his head towards Chekov and a quick sigh, he turned to McCoy. "Sorry about that. His brain is still developing."

"Oh, now you, too?" Chekov pouted, his lower lip pushing out the slightest bit. "You hurt me, Hikaru."

"Whatever you say, Tenderfoot," Sulu chuckled. Everyone shared a laugh at Chekov's expense as the younger man huffed and blew a curl out of his eyes. Sulu turned his attention to Joanna who had turned away from Jim to pay attention to the others. "So what do you like to do, Joanna?"

Joanna paused to think about it as she sat down in the extra seat around the table, looking at the cards laid out from their forgotten game.

"I like to read," she finally answered. "Daddy's been reading _The Secret Garden_ to me." She glanced back at her father to give him a glowing smile which he quickly returned.

"Really? I love gardens," Sulu responded, his voice perking up with interest. "I'm a botanist in my spare time. I like to grow lots of flowers," he added for her benefit when he saw her confusion towards the word _botanist_.

"I love flowers!" Joanna piped, tucking her legs under her to sit up higher in her seat.

McCoy and Jim shared an amused glance, knowing full well that she hadn't had any real interest in flowers until McCoy had reached the chapter in _The Secret Garden_ where the Mary and Dickon started tending to the roses.

"I bet a bonny lass like you would look a treasure with some flowers in your hair," Scotty commented, ruffling Joanna's hair while she beamed at him.

"Thank you, Scotty!"

"Sure, you can be nice to her," Chekov commented, his annoyed tone belying the smile on his face as he watched Joanna preen under all the attention.

_At this rate, she's going to have an ego like Jim's_, McCoy thought to himself, chuckling.

Jim heard the chuckle and looked over curiously, but didn't react otherwise.

"C'mon, let's look around," Jim announced to Joanna and McCoy. "I just wanted to introduce you to my friends here and now we can take the full tour of the building."

"Sounds fun!" Joanna quipped, bounding from the chair to stand with her father, her tiny hand slipping into his as she looked up at him excitedly. "Can I fly an airplane?"

They all chuckled at her question as she continued to peer up at McCoy and Jim, waiting for a response.

"I don't think we have an airplane the right size for you, but let's see if we can sneak you into the flight simulator," Jim conceded, running a hand through his cropped hair.

"Sneak?" Joanna questioned, her face screwed up in confusion.

"Yep, that's right. Let's practice our spy moves," he suggested, moving down low to walk quietly in the room. Joanna laughed, trying to stifle the sound as she moved over to wall to walk along the edge in what she thought was a stealthy manner.

Everyone exchanged their good-byes and nice-to-meet-yous as Jim, McCoy, and Joanna started to walk away.

"Jim was right," McCoy could hear Chekov say before they walked out of the room. "He's wery good-looking."

"Pavel!" came the expected, exasperated cry from Sulu.

"What?"

_Well_, McCoy reasoned with himself, ignoring Jim's fleeting glances towards him, _at least I met their approval._

* * *

McCoy had been working at the hospital for nearly a year and a half by now and that amount of time garnered him at least a few benefits. He was able to work his schedule around Jim's once more, this time to make sure that someone was always home with Joanna so that they never needed to hire a sitter or make her feel unwanted.

However, he had not worked at the hospital long enough to earn enough vacation days to take off the entire nine days his daughter would be visiting so there were some hours of the day where she only had Jim to entertain her.

It was one such day (the sixth day Joanna was visiting) and McCoy hadn't been home for a large portion of the day, having left in the morning before Joanna had even gotten out of bed yet. Thankfully, it was a Saturday and that meant Jim had the day off and could take care of Joanna while he was gone.

When McCoy's day had finally finished, it was after eight when he returned home. He idly wondered what Joanna and Jim had eaten for dinner and wondered how good it would taste heated up in the microwave when he heard the familiar noises of their voices in the kitchen.

McCoy smiled to himself. He had gotten used to the sound of them together whenever he came home from work.

However, when he entered the kitchen, he found a strange site. Joanna's face was flushed and blotchy red and white, and a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream (her favorite) sat in front of her. She picked at it morosely, looking up languidly at her father and giving him a listless wave with the hand that didn't hold her spoon.

"Hi, Daddy," she said quietly around the spoonful of ice cream in her mouth.

"Hi, baby." He looked around the room to find Jim washing bloodied rags in the sink. He opened his mouth to ask Jim what happened when Joanna started to explain.

"Mister Jim and I went to the park after dinner. We were at the swings and there were a couple other kids my age. Well, Abbie, she was one of the girls there, and I were pushing each other on the swing and it was my turn to push her on the swing and I got hit in the face with the swing and then my nose started bleeding so Mister Jim had to bring me back."

She said this all at once and the moment she finished speaking, she pushed another spoonful of ice cream between her lips and looked at her father with wide eyes.

"Oh, honey," he sighed, moving a chair around the table so that he could sit directly next to her. He ran his fingers through her hair a few times comfortingly as she finished her ice cream.

"Daddy? Can I watch some cartoons?" she asked, her spoon clanking against the bottom of her dish.

"Sure thing, Joanna," he agreed, moving out of his chair so that she could get up. She started to bring her dish over to the sink where Jim still stood, but he waved her off.

"I'll take care of it," he promised her with a gentle smile.

She nodded and walked off, settling herself on the couch as she turned on the television and looked for something to watch.

McCoy watched the back of her head for a moment before turning to Jim.

"Is she really okay?" he asked, for the first time letting a note of desperate concern color his inflection.

"Of course she is," Jim reassured him, wringing out the rags in the sink. "If it had been bad, I would have called you at the hospital."

McCoy stared at the younger man for a while, looking deep in the blue irises as though trying to find the truth. After a terse second, he sighed heavily and let his shoulders drop.

"I just worry too much," he gruffed, looking away from Jim.

Jim smiled and nodded sagely. "It's hard not to worry about her," he agreed. "But really, it's fine. She cried a little, but mostly because she was scared. I don't think it actually hurt her that much. She only bled for a little while. I just felt bad and gave her some ice cream."

"Yeah, that always made her feel better when she was younger," McCoy commented, grinning slightly at the memories.

He clapped Jim on the shoulder before walking over to the desk in the living room where his laptop sat.

_Strange_, he thought. _I thought I left it in my room_.

He ran a finger over the touchpad and the screensaver disappeared to show a WebMD website about concussions. There were several other windows open, some Google searches about head injuries and how to treat bloody noses.

McCoy glanced up to see Jim still moving around in the kitchen a calm expression on his face. The doctor smiled to himself, amused and a little touched by how concerned Jim was pretending not to be.

* * *

Flowers, McCoy decided, were overrated.

After two hours of walking through the San Francisco Botanical Garden, McCoy could no longer tell the difference between Downy-Thorn Apple and Nightfires or smell any change between the Jasmine and the Ylang Ylang.

Thankfully, Sulu had taken the brunt of Joanna's excitement, seemingly just as enthusiastic to have someone as interested in flowers as he was. He had been the one to suggest taking Joanna to the Garden and so the McCoys, Jim, Sulu, and Chekov (whom McCoy unsurprisedly learned was Sulu's boyfriend) wound their way between the masses of flowers and fountains.

Truthfully, it was a fairly enjoyable time. Joanna had been practically beside herself when they found the Children's Garden and spent a fair amount of time running around in the flower-shaped wading pools and racing through the flower maze. A few tiny houses had been constructed out of bare wood with ivy and tiny blossoms encircling the lumber. A few other children around Joanna's age all teamed together to play house.

The adults, meanwhile, all sat in a wrought iron gazebo on small concrete benches decorated with polished bumblebees.

McCoy watched with fondness as Joanna circled around the gardens, carefully reading each sign next to the flowers. Occasionally she would call out to her father and point out a flower that she particularly liked.

On his left, Chekov shuffled around in his seat, looking at the flowers that seemed to perpetually surround them. Finally, with his thin lips curved into a bright smile, he plucked a small stalk covered in yellow flowers. The lollipop flower, McCoy remembered Joanna informing him. Twisting the flower between his slim fingers, he slipped it behind Sulu's ear unexpectedly.

"You're giving me a flower?" Sulu asked, smiling gently at his boyfriend. "How sweet of you."

"Of course I'm sweet. All Russians are," Chekov scoffed as though unaffected by the comment, though the slight blush on his cheekbones suggested otherwise. "And you look best in yellow."

Sulu chuckled softly, letting his fingers trace Chekov's blush momentarily before adjusting the flower in his hair.

McCoy found his eyes falling to Jim who was watching Joanna skip with a tea rose in her pocket. His form was backlit with more lollipop flowers, the sun shining off his sandy hair.

"Sounds like someone else I know," he said without realizing it.

Jim glanced at him with raised eyebrows, his expression both surprised and welcoming. McCoy could feel himself flush with the realization of his words, but Jim just brushed it off.

"Actually, I look better in gold than in yellow," he informed McCoy with a chuckle in his throat. Then his eyes flickered for a moment, the blue suddenly highly apparent as his features softened and his voice lowered. "But thank you regardless."

The silence that followed was surprisingly comfortable as the breezes filtered through the iron bars, very welcome in the heat of the afternoon. The four men were content to sit, inhaling the delicate scent of the flowers around them.

Joanna came back to where they were all sitting, handing each one of them a flower chain that she had constructed out of the daisies children were allowed to pick. McCoy glanced over to the daisy bush and saw with amusement one section of the bush that was picked bare.

"Here you go, Daddy," Joanna said cheerfully as she placed the daisy chain precariously onto the top of his head.

"Nice look, Bones," Jim teased to his right.

McCoy shoved the younger man's shoulder in response. Everyone laughed, but when McCoy turned his head to look at his friend, his breath caught in his throat. The daisy chain looped over his hair, the gold glinting between the petals. One flower flopped down onto his forehead, covering the better part of his eyebrow and framing the corner of his eye.

Flowers, McCoy realized, were _highly_ underrated.

* * *

It was the night before Joanna had to go back to Georgia and McCoy knew he needed to go to sleep, but he just wanted to cling to as many conscious minutes as possible, knowing that his daughter was sleeping only a few feet away in her bed. It was a comfort he had missed ever since he left Georgia months and months ago.

The television was playing softly in the background, the volume turned down so low that it was more or less silent. McCoy could hear the murmur of voices coming from the television, but could not distinguish any of the voices. The glow from the screen was the main source of light in the room, though the tiny lamp on the end table also lit up a small section of the room.

It was just enough light to see clearly the clothes on his lap. Joanna had ripped her shirt that day while on the monkey bars. Not a serious rip, just along the seam of her sleeve. McCoy held the soft purple material close to his eyes as he meticulously drew the needle in and out of the cloth, the small sewing kit beside him on the couch.

He was nearly done when he heard a door in the hallway open. He glanced up, worried that it was Joanna. She had been difficult to convince to go to sleep that night, not wanting to wake up in the morning only to leave her father again.

But instead, it was Jim who appeared in the room, his eyes dark with sleep and his sleep clothes rumpled around his body.

"Shit, Jim. I didn't mean to wake you up," McCoy apologized quietly.

"Bullshit," Jim yawned, scratching his stomach idly. McCoy let his eyes linger at the strip of taunt skin that appeared just above the waistband of his pants when Jim slid his hand up the bottom of the shirt. "More like you didn't want to wake up Joanna. You don't give a damn about me." That might have been wistfulness in his tone, but McCoy couldn't be sure. Jim might have just been tired.

"That's not true," he denied, quieter still.

They paused as the words settled in the air, and McCoy turned back to the shirt in his hands.

"What are you still doing up?" Jim asked, walking over to the kitchen sink to get himself a glass of water.

"Sewing Joanna's shirt," he responded. "I don't want Jocelyn to think I'm leaving a mess for her or any fucking nonsense like that."

He didn't turn around, but he could sense Jim nodding in understanding. More silence followed as Jim finished his drink and McCoy knotted the end of the thread and snipped it with the fabric scissors lying by his hip.

The unmistakable clink of glass could be heard as Jim placed the cup onto the counter by the sink. He walked out of the kitchen and from the corner of his eyes, McCoy watched him head back towards his bedroom. But then Jim hesitated and turned around again.

Curious, McCoy shifted in his seat to face his friend who walked up behind him.

"You're a good father," Jim mused, staring deeply at McCoy as he ran a hand tenderly through McCoy's hair.

And before McCoy could say even one word, Jim was walking away. McCoy continued to face in the general direction of Jim's bedroom until he could hear the quiet thud of the door shutting.

McCoy sighed. He just didn't understand sometimes.

* * *

"And I'll take lots of pictures of my garden, I promise!" Joanna promised, just barely containing the tears in her eyes.

"I can't wait to see them, baby," McCoy said, smiling from where he kneeled on the floor in front of his teary-eyed daughter.

_Flight 147 is now boarding. Flight 147 is now boarding_, came the cool female voice over the loudspeaker.

McCoy looked up at Josiah who nodded non-committedly, affirming that it was, indeed, time for Joanna to leave.

"Alright, well, it's time to go," he told her, his smile turning sad.

"I gonna miss you, Daddy," she cried, a few tears finally making their way down her cheeks, wetting her eyelashes.

"I'll miss you, too, darlin'. But we're going to see each other pretty soon. Your momma's makin' noise about you coming back here before Christmas," he told her excitedly, trying to cheer up the gloomy girl before him.

"That's so far away!" she pouted, placing her fists on her hips, her face twisted sadly.

"It'll be here before you realize," he promised, wiping away her tears with his thumb. "Now give me a hug good bye."

Without another word, she threw herself into her father's waiting arms and hugged him as tightly as she could. McCoy squeezed her for a moment, his eyes shut briefly as he tried to memorize this last moment he had with his daughter. When he let her go, she gave him a watery smile, but no more tears seemed to fall from her face.

"Can I have a hug, too, Miss Joanna?" Jim asked from where he stood a little way aways from the father-daughter pair.

"Of course," she grinned a little, her teeth barely showing. McCoy watched as Jim gathered her up in his arms and spun her around as she let out a peal of laughter. He settled her back on the floor and patted her hair softly.

"One more for your old dad?"

"Silly Daddy, you're not old," she scolded gently as she gave him another hug. He pressed a kiss to her cheek before letting go and handing her the pink backpack she had left on the floor.

He stood up as she walked over to Josiah who smiled in that cautious way people smile when they aren't really sure what they are supposed to do with a small child. Poor Joanna. She was in for another boring plane ride.

Josiah led her away to the gates, her hand firmly in his as she walked backwards, waving good bye to McCoy and Jim the whole way. They returned the wave until they could no longer see her.

The two men stood there, watching as crowds of people separated them from Joanna.

"So, you think she'll actually grow a garden?" Jim finally spoke up, a hint of laughter in his voice that McCoy was sure he was using as a cover for his disappointment that Joanna was leaving.

"Eh, probably not," McCoy answered with a shrug. "She'll plant the flowers and remember to water them for a few weeks, a month tops. But then she'll read _A Little Princess_ and want to act out that story instead." He smiled at the thought, wondering if Joanna would read the story on her own or if Jocelyn would read it to her. Would Jocelyn make different voices for all the characters like he had? Probably not.

"Hmm, she'll need an Indian Prince," Jim commented with mock-seriousness as the two men headed towards the exit.

"Oh, haven't you heard? There's a bunch of them in Georgia," McCoy responded, playing along with Jim to avoid thinking of his daughter's departure.

"Really now? Never would have expected that," Jim smiled, the laughter in his voice an undertone for his words.

The two continued to talk of Indian Princes and the strangeness of Georgia the whole way back to the apartment, even if only to distract them from their sadness.

Still, in the back of his mind, McCoy wondered how things would be between them now that Joanna, their buffer, was gone.

* * *

They walked into the house wordlessly, though the silence was much more pleasant than it had been the last time they were alone together.

"You were really good with Joanna," McCoy commented, breaking through the companionable silence as they both sat down on the couch.

Jim picked up the remote and stared at it as though contemplating whether or not he truly wanted to turn the television on. One corner of his mouth lifted up at McCoy's words and he grinned crookedly at the doctor.

"It's easy when the kid's as great as she is," he commented, brushing aside the compliment in a shockingly atypical manner. "She must get that from you." He looked more seriously into McCoy's eyes which caused him to avert his gaze.

He was still getting used to this whole… whatever the fuck it was with Jim. He was unused to the gentle flirting and the tiny displays of emotion that Jim seemed to thrive on. Jim seemed to pick up on the awkwardness and, with a heavy sigh, placed the remote down on the couch beside him as he moved closer to McCoy.

"You know, I'm not going to bite you," Jim stated bluntly before his eyes twinkled devilishly. "That is, unless you're into that kind of thing."

Crude as the joke was, McCoy laughed and felt some of the pressure lift off of him. He rested his arms on the back of the couch, his left hand conveniently right behind Jim's head. McCoy gave in to his inner thoughts and stroked the golden hair with the tips of his fingers, a warmth radiating from the simple touch.

Jim smiled softly, a strong contrast to his usual snarky and bombastic approach. Yet, the moment called for this particular brand of softness.

"So, what are we now?" Jim asked, carefully approaching the subject.

"I have no fucking clue," McCoy admitted frankly, pulling his hand away to shrug. The two laughed for a moment in the quiet of their apartment before their amusement drifted off. Speaking more sincerely, McCoy continued. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for how I treated you before."

"I just don't get it," Jim responded, as he ran his fingers through his hair. Even after he had cut it short, he still kept that habit. "When we woke up on the couch together, why weren't you as happy as me?"

He wasn't angry or regretful or any of the emotions McCoy expected. Jim just sounded insatiably curious, as though he had pondered the question time and time again and could not find the answer.

"I just," he started, his own voice cutting out almost immediately as he realized he was not sure how to continue. His arms, which had involuntarily risen up parallel to his chest, slumped back down to his side. He sighed and looked away from Jim, taking a moment to speak while the younger man waited with barely concealed impatience. When McCoy spoke, his voice was quieter and guiltier than it had been before. "I thought I wasn't supposed to feel this way about men."

Jim nodded a few times slowly as he readjusted himself on the couch, his body language shutting him away from McCoy the slightest bit.

"You don't feel this way about men. You just feel this way about me," he said, trying to help McCoy come to a natural conclusion about his thoughts. McCoy could read better than anyone the slight amount of frustration that began to creep into the younger man's voice.

"That makes a difference?"

"It should to you. It's not like I'm just some guy you met at a bar and had a one night stand with," Jim scoffed with a bit of disdain as though McCoy would ever think of him that way. "I'm me. I'm _Jim_," he stressed, pressing a palm hard to his chest as he pleaded with McCoy to understand him. He paused as the gravity of his words took hold of McCoy. Jim moved forward on the couch so that his knees knocked into McCoy's thigh and when he opened his mouth to speak again, some of the mounting passion dissipated from his voice.

"Look, I won't push you into anything that you aren't ready for," Jim promised, causing McCoy to let out a sigh of relief he hadn't realized he had been holding. "But think about this. When it comes to love, what's more important? The parts they have or the personality they have? Because last time I checked, you married someone with the right parts and the wrong personality. And look where that left you."

Jim leaned forward and when McCoy didn't stop him, he placed a dry kiss to the corner of McCoy's lips, just a single, insistent press. And on that enigmatic note, Jim left the room and McCoy was alone with his thoughts.

* * *

_I know a lot of you are probably wondering why I didn't just make them all "omg we kissed love 4 ever!" Personally, I'm not a big fan of stories. I wanted some more realism to it, especially after working so hard to keep this story as realistic as possible. So, please bear with me. Things will work out, but I'm not going to make things easy for them. :)_

_Not gonna lie. I feel sorta bad for using Joanna as solely a plot device. Oh well. Also, speaking of Joanna, she might seem a bit young for her age. I recently spent a lot of time with a six year old and quite honestly, I can't remember the last time I spoke to an eight year old. So, if Joanna seems a bit... off, I apologize._

_The flowers in this story are all real. I recently went to Longwood Gardens over the weekend and used a lot of that to influence my story. Speaking of flowers, I hope everyone enjoyed Sulu, Chekov, and Scotty. I'm curious to know how you all felt about them. :)_

_Well, the story is starting to come to an end. There will be one more chapter after this one and then finally an epilogue. I'm really hoping to finish the story before I go back to college on the 24th._

_As always, thank you everyone who reads, reviews, favorites, alerts this story. I really appreciate it more than you can imagine. This has been a pretty nasty summer and you guys are always there to cheer me up. Thank you._


	14. of Graduation and Shampoo

_**Notes**: This is the Post-It Verse. This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco. Also, I rated this T because there's nothing too bad except for McCoy and Kirk's language. I don't think it's strong enough to warrant an M rating, but if anyone has a problem with it, I will up the rating. _

_**Disclaimer**: Star Trek, I do not own. (Clashing of the fandoms? What?)_

* * *

"Why the hell are you here?"

From the sounds of it, McCoy assumed that it wasn't the neighbor girl selling Girl Scout cookies. Damn. He was looking forward to those Thin Mints.

"Well, first we're going to the circus and then we're heading to McDonald's," came an unfamiliar woman's voice. Her sarcasm matched Jim's baffled tone in equal measure.

"The circus is in town?" Jim said hopefully, plainly ignoring her mockery.

"Stop being an idiot, Kirk."

"Why do you hurt me?" Jim mock-moped.

"Because it makes me happy," was the sickly sweet reply.

McCoy rolled his eyes in the kitchen. Great. A female Jim. Just what he needed.

"I can think of so many things you could do to me that would make you happier," he could hear Jim croon.

"Jim, I ask you to desist such comments," came a deep, stifled male's voice.

"Look, I can't help it if I have a sexy telephone operator voice," Jim deflected breezily.

McCoy could hear footsteps and set down the apple he had been about to eat. Through the mouth of the hallway, Jim emerged and was followed by two people McCoy vaguely recognized.

Spock and Uhura, he realized with a jolt when he remembered their faces from pictures Jim had sent him months before.

"She's mean," Jim pouted. His lower lip protruded childishly, slightly affecting the clarity of his words.

"And he's just a baby," she said, rolling her black-outlined eyes. She smiled at his expense before turning her amber eyes onto McCoy and extending a slim hand. "Hi, I'm Uhura."

"Lovely meeting you," he greeted grasping her hand. She had a surprisingly strong handshake. What was it that Jim called her? A head bitch in charge? Yeah, that seemed to suit her.

McCoy retracted his hand and turned over to the other man standing stiffly to the side with his hands presumably clasped behind his back.

"And you must be Spock," McCoy said, holding out his hand.

Spock looked at it for a moment and his lips pursed ever-so-slightly into a fine line.

"Yes, Doctor," he responded, his hands still behind his back.

Bastard.

Uhura placed her fingertips on Spock's forearm as Jim chuckled at his friend's socially awkward behavior.

"So why are you guys visiting?" Jim asked, turning the conversation away. "Don't get me wrong, I love that you're here," he added as Uhura narrowed her eyes at him.

"In the last electronic transmission you sent to me, you mentioned your commencement from pilot school," Spock answered before Uhura could come up with a biting comment. "Uhura and I deemed it necessary to witness such an occasion."

Huh. Somehow, McCoy doubted that.

"I convinced him it was a non-negotiable social obligation," Uhura said off-hand, confirming McCoy's suspicions. However, now was not the time to focus on that.

"There's a commencement?" he asked curiously, turning to face Jim.

"Yeah, a graduation," he explained, running an errant hand through his hand.

"I know what a commencement is, dammit," McCoy gruffed. He waited until the smirk fell from Jim's face and was replaced with a more repentant expression. "Why didn't you say anything to me about it?"

"Didn't think it was a big deal," Jim shrugged.

"When is it?"

"This Saturday at two," Uhura piped, cutting off Jim who looked like he was about to give a dumbass answer. She smiled sweetly, but expression turned sharp as steel as she turned to Jim. "I already bought a new dress for the occasion and damned if I'm not going to wear it."

And just like that, it was settled.

Spock and Uhura were staying at a nearby hotel, they plus McCoy would be at graduation Saturday at two, and Jim was just going to fucking deal with it.

* * *

McCoy stood before the microwave, adjusting his cobalt tie for the umpteenth time in the reflection. He frowned at the grease that had accumulated on the inside of microwave. Seriously, Jim needed to stop trying to make tacos while he was drunk.

"You know," cam Jim's voice from behind his bedroom door, "this is the first graduation I've ever gone to."

"What about high school or college?" McCoy called out, running a paper towel under the faucet to wipe down the greasy surfaces.

"Didn't go," he explained. McCoy could hear the shrug in his voice. "I just picked up my diploma and didn't go to the ceremony."

"Why not?" McCoy asked gruffly, wondering idly what his parents would have done if he had deprived them of the chance to see him graduate. Probably would have whooped his ass, he figured.

"Didn't want to," was Jim's blasé response.

McCoy grimaced at the paper towel in disgust, rolling his eyes at Jim's lack of concern for anyone else in the world other than himself.

"You sound like a five-year-old," he accused Jim. He glanced down at the paper towel. He was pretty sure the grease created the image of Fonzie's face, but didn't think it was exciting enough to post the picture on the internet. He threw it out before walking over to Jim's closed door.

"That was the old me." Jim's voice grew louder as McCoy walked closer. "The new me wants my friends to see me graduate." He paused and assumingly stopped moving around since McCoy could no longer hear any rustling around. "His friends? You know, I never really understood how that sort of grammar works. Regardless," he continued as the rustling noises resumed. "I want you guys there."

"Yeah, yeah," McCoy brushed off, leaning back against the wall behind him, propping one socked foot on the wall. "You just want to show off."

"Well, I wouldn't mind strutting my stuff."

Oh, damn. That tone of voice just _dripped_ with implications and innuendos.

Jim walked out of the bedroom and exceeded all of McCoy's ludicrous expectations.

"Jim," McCoy spoke, unsure of where to start as he stared at his friend.

"Yes, Bones?" Jim questioned innocently with a barracuda smile.

"What the fuck are you wearing?"

Jim stood in his doorway, his hands on his hips like a deranged superhero. Adorning his lean figure was the strangest assortment of clothing that McCoy had ever seen outside of a strip club. Jim wore black leather dress pants that stretched against his muscles, straining over the crotch (not that McCoy was really paying that much attention to it). His chest was bare without a shirt, but shirt cuffs encircled his wrists and a collar with a silky red bow tie was around his neck.

And upon closer inspection, McCoy was sure that, yes, that was oil on his chest. Which was newly shaved, probably for just that occasion.

Jim met McCoy's "oh my God, are you fucking insane" expression with a cocky smile that honest-to-God _oozed_ self-satisfaction.

"Well, I thought about streaking, but that's so overdone," he said in way of explanation, bringing his hand up from his waist to bend it at the wrist in stereotypical gay fashion.

"…You're wearing metallic underwear under those pants, aren't you?"

"I'm not wearing any underwear," Jim said, his grin positively feral now. He walked, no, _sauntered_ away, his ass shaking in time with his steps. "When you're a pilot, underwear only gets in the way."

"Why? Just, why?" McCoy asked, more to God than to Jim. Jim, however, not fully understanding the difference between himself and the Good Lord, answered.

"I like making you blush."

He turned around to tweak McCoy's nose before gathering his trench coat. He stood by the door as McCoy shook his head, putting on his shoes.

Well, it was going to be Jim's first graduation. And probably the most interesting one McCoy would ever see.

* * *

"There he is!" Uhura practically squealed in excitement. McCoy followed the length of her arm, past the wooden bangles adorning her wrists, and found Jim among the small group of thirty or so graduates.

Somehow, Jim must have heard the cry over the rambunctious chatter that surrounded the graduates and their loved ones who gathered for the ceremony for he glanced up at the noise. McCoy watched as his blue irises rotated around the crowd until finally settling on McCoy, Spock, and Uhura. He gave a tiny wave to the three of them, his grin crooked and wide as always. Even at the slight distance, his teeth seemed unbearably white.

For a brief instance, his gaze caught McCoy's and his hand moved from the wave to the collar of his black graduation robe. Without dropping the stare, Jim pulled the collar just enough so that McCoy could see the hint of white beneath it, a reminder of the costume Jim wore.

McCoy chuckled to himself, wondering if everyone in the audience would have the misfortune (Or sick, twisted pleasure. Whichever.) of witnessing Jim in such an outfit.

Uhura glanced over curiously at McCoy's amusement, but otherwise did not say a word. Instead, she placed a hand on McCoy's forearm and squeezed gently. A warmth spread out from her grip and McCoy smiled at the slightly younger woman. She wore a dress in such a vibrant hue of red that it was nearly vermillion in its vivaciousness. Beside her sat Spock in a shade of navy that seemed almost austere in comparison to her bright loveliness.

_They complement each other_, McCoy thought idly.

McCoy was brought forth from his musings as a tall, balding man stepped up to the podium and began the graduation. His eyes scanned the crowd, picking out of the group Scotty (ruddy-faced and beaming like a star), Sulu (relaxed and content as always), and Chekov (practically twitching with pride and nerves). He smiled to himself before his eyes fell on Jim.

From his seat, he could see the nuances in Jim's face, the subtle changes in his expression. At first he seemed haughty as ever. Judging from the glint in his eyes, McCoy knew he was waiting for the right moment to throw the robe off of him. For a moment, McCoy entertained the notion of music playing as he ripped off the robe. He wouldn't put it past him if Jim had arranged for someone to play stripper music in an elaborate prank. Hell, he wouldn't put it past Jim if everyone was wearing the same costume under their robes and was just waiting for Jim to make the first move.

But as the speaker continued, McCoy watched Jim's expression alter into something more serious, almost reverent.

His father, McCoy realized with a sudden surge of pride for his friend.

Suddenly, this graduation was more than just a small ceremony Jim had attended to appease his friends. No, it was something much more than that. This was a continuation of the life he would have had if his father had lived. It was Jim finally living up to all the expectations everyone had ever had of him. It was a connection to the father he had never known, but had always missed.

The balding man was soon joined by a woman in a teal dress suit and the two of them began calling out names.

McCoy watched Chekov walk by and found himself praying that the younger man would not trip. No one would ever let him live that one down. As Chekov received his diploma, McCoy found himself glancing back at Sulu a few rows back. The Asian man was positively glowing with admiration, happiness, and love.

_I want that_, McCoy found himself wishing. He was not sure where the thought had come from, but found it to be true.

Beside him, Uhura was clutching a camera in her hands and McCoy knew it was nearly time for Jim to receive his certificate.

"James Tiberius Kirk."

And sure enough, Jim walked down the path, his steps sure and confident. McCoy watched the lean lines of his legs as Uhura's camera flashed beside him. Still staring at Jim's face, McCoy noticed something.

Jim was… proud. And it wasn't the same arrogance that colored his every movement, that shadowed his every expression. It was the welcome knowledge and acceptance that he had finally done something to be proud of. He had worked hard and earned this pride, not simply walked into it or earned it aimlessly. Jim was growing up. Correction, he _had_ grown up.

McCoy hoped for a moment that he had had some role in the evolution of the man before him.

* * *

To no one's great surprise, Jim tried to convince everyone that they should all celebrate in a club. Preferably one with black lights that revealed the neon paint speckled on their bodies and more jell-o shots than any one person should ever drink in their entire lives.

Spock quickly put an end to that, stating with absolute certainty that such behavior would be illogical.

"Fine," Jim relented, too happy to put up a fight. "But I swear, if you keep saying _logical_ and _illogical_, I'm making a drinking game out of it."

And with that rule under their belts, Jim led McCoy, Uhura, Spock, Chekov, Sulu, and Scotty to a local bar. True, there were no black lights, but the atmosphere was homey and there were drinks. And really, that was the most important part.

"Are you even old enough to drink, laddie?" Scotty questioned with a wink in Sulu's direction as he poked fun at Chekov's youthful demeanor.

"Drinking was invented in Russia," Chekov retorted with an arrogant toss of his curls.

The entire group laughed and even Spock allowed a slight upwards curve of his lips. Pretty soon, they were digging into the appetizers they had ordered in place of meals and were drinking/sipping/tossing back their beverages. Their laughter, already close to the surface with the success of the day, grew louder and brighter as their friendly conversations continued.

Jim was easily the life of the party, his skin flushed with drink and his expression erratic as he told jokes and anecdotes to his friends.

McCoy smiled to himself as he nursed his whiskey. Jim was clearly in his element. He sat beside the younger man, the happiness radiating off of him in a nearly tangible manner. Jim was like lightning, bright to look at and nearly impossible to pin down.

"Looks like everyone's ready for another round," Uhura announced suddenly, her eyes flickering around the table. Her gaze fell onto McCoy and he had a feeling she had just been watching him before. "McCoy, come help me."

McCoy looked at her curiously, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spock move his head an inch to each side and knew it would be in his best interest to not ask questions.

He followed her long dark hair, her bright dress a beacon in the dimmed light of the bar. She must have not had as much to drink as he had because her movements were more nimble. By the time his sluggish body got to the bar, Uhura had already given their order.

"Feel free to take your time with it," she advised with a flash of her brilliant smile.

Uhura settled down on the bar stool, crossing her long legs and gesturing to McCoy to sit beside her. He followed her lead, his eyes curious on hers.

"Jim's really lucky to have you," she started without any pretense. "You know how he described you to me?"

"No," McCoy admitted, slightly taken aback by her way of starting the conversation. Was the art of conversation really that dead? "What did he say?"

Uhura chuckled, her eyes sliding away from his to the countertop where her fingers rested against the finished wood.

"He said the reason he liked you so much was because you're mean and honest. Most people are nice and lying," she recited, her voice fond.

"I'm supposed to see that as a compliment?" McCoy grumped, not really seeing the affectionate meaning of the words. Even if they were true.

"If you had seen the way he looked when he said, you'd definitely take it as a compliment," she assured him. Her fingers traced the ring of the glass bowl holding the peanuts. "He's been in need of someone like you for a while."

"He's had Spock," McCoy insisted, resisting her comment for some inexplicable reason.

Uhura waved him off, tossing a few peanuts into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully for a moment, eyeing McCoy with deep interest.

"Spock was the one who could talk him down," she explained after she swallowed, defining the difference in the roles the two men played in Jim's life. "Now you're the one who can talk him into anything. He never would have grown up without you."

Something indignant spurred under the shallow alcoholic haze.

"I never meant to make him grow up," he denied, raising his hands in visual display.

"I don't mean grow up in a negative sense," she quickly reiterated.

The phrasing caught McCoy off-guard. His hands lowered as his eyebrows rose.

"Negative sense?"

Uhura stared at him blankly for a moment before screwing her face up adorably and slapping a hand lightly on her forehead.

"Oh, God. I think Spock is rubbing off on me," she joked, glancing back at her boyfriend where he sat between Jim and Scotty, clearly uncomfortable with the Irishman's arm around his tense shoulder. She shared a look with McCoy, rolling her eyes before taking a deep breath and starting again. "What I mean to say is, you've made him a better person. I haven't known Jim that long, but this is the best he's ever been. I think he owes it all to you."

She allowed a moment for the glowing praise to settle. The bartender returned with a tray of drinks. Uhura smiled in thanks and when he left, she turned back to McCoy.

"He means a lot to you, doesn't he?" she asked gently, taking in McCoy's unbridled smile.

"So much," he admitted in a moment of rare honesty. There was something about the combined forces of Jim's presence, alcohol, the dim atmosphere, and Uhura's persuasion that made him feel more open. "But sometimes I worry that I can't care for him like he cares for me."

Uhura scrunched up her face in contemplation before her brow unfurrowed.

"I wouldn't worry so much about that if I were you," she reassured him. "Love happens to different people at different times."

She leaned in and placed a hand on his shoulder on that enigmatic note as the words reverberated in his mind. There was a weight to them, a meaning that McCoy wasn't sure if he could understand quite yet.

With a final squeeze to his shoulder, she grinned and pulled back.

"Now come on," she commanded amiably. She picked up the tray of drinks. "They're probably all waiting for their drinks."

They headed back to the table, McCoy feeling more punch-drunk than ever after that conversation.

"What took you so long?" Jim questioned with the loudness associated with drunkenness as McCoy settled back into the seat beside him.

McCoy glanced over at Uhura who was handing a glass of ale to Sulu and brushed an errant hair away from Spock's face. She avoided his gaze, but her expression grew warmer under his scrutiny.

"Had a nice chat with Uhura," he answered simply as he wrapped his long fingers around a frosted glass of whiskey.

"Oh, okay," Jim responded with a shrug. Then without further ado, he turned his attentions back to Scotty and Chekov who seemed to be having a heated debate about whether or not scotch had been invented in Russia.

McCoy spent the rest of the night in contemplative silence, answering only when his friends addressed him. He thought about Uhura's words and wondered if he would ever truly understand them.

Jim sat beside him, warm against his leg and beaming with pride.

Yeah, McCoy knew. He'd understand in time.

* * *

Two days (and one group hangover) later, Spock and Uhura were packed up and ready to go. McCoy and Jim had gathered at the hotel where the two had been staying. Jim sat on the still un-made bed, picking at loose threads on the comforter.

"Do you guys really need to go now?" he asked, careful to keep the childish undertone at a minimum. He glanced up at Spock and Uhura with black-fringed blue eyes and McCoy realized just how much Jim would miss having his friends around.

"Unfortunately, yes," Spock replied, clasping the latch on his briefcase. "I would much prefer to spend time with you, Jim, but I am needed back in China. Likewise, Miss Uhura's services are also required."

Beside him, Uhura nodded as she carefully lowered her dress back on top of her packed suitcases.

"You and McCoy should visit us in China some day," she suggested, her smile bright as she looked over her shoulder at the two men. "Maybe over the summer? Or in the fall? It's beautiful there at that time of year."

"Yeah, that might be nice," Jim responded thoughtfully, glancing over at McCoy as though waiting for a reaction. McCoy nodded in agreement. It was definitely food for thought.

"Jim," Uhura started, straightening up from her suitcases as she slipped a few bag straps over her shoulder. "Can you help me get the luggage downstairs to the lobby? The cab should be waiting to take us to the airport."

"Sure thing, Uhura," Jim agreed, bounding off the bed to take the larger suitcases.

McCoy found it odd that she would ask Jim and leave McCoy there with Spock who was taking his good ol' time packing up that final suitcase. But then the gracious smile she had bestowed on Jim turned to golden command as she turned it to Spock.

No wonder this woman worked with an ambassador. McCoy realized. She should be in charge of all political relations. The woman could end wars with those liquid dagger eyes of hers matched with that sweet smile.

Spock continued to fold articles of clothing, each one methodically placed into the suitcase as Jim and Uhura exited. A few moments of silence carried on in the room even after Uhura had shut the door behind her.

McCoy continued to watch Spock's slim shoulders move upwards and downwards with the disciplined movement of his arms before he turned around to face McCoy.

Without any sort of preamble, he spoke cordially with little to no inflection in his well-trained voice.

"I would like to extend my gratitude toward you for taking care of Jim while I was otherwise preoccupied."

McCoy blinked at the formality of the statement.

"Um, you're welcome," he said, hazarding a guess at what exactly Spock meant by this. It hadn't taken him too long to realize that Spock-speak wasn't the same as everybody-else-speak. "Uh, I guess I should thank you for taking care of Jim before I came along."

"You should," Spock agreed, nodding his head once. He continued to stand still, his hands behind his back as though waiting for a thank you.

"Dammit, that _was_ the thank you," McCoy gruffed, rolling his eyes. Spock was Jim's friend. Of course he would be difficult.

"In that case, Doctor, I would suggest that you phrase your sentences with more certainty and clarity," the stoic man advised with a slight touch of reprimand in his tone.

McCoy found himself literally biting his tongue to hold back. Uhura returned at that instant, a giggle behind her teeth as she took in McCoy's expression.

"Well, I assumed as much," she said, looking between the two men. She turned her attention towards Spock. "We should be on our way."

Spock nodded once and then hefted his suitcase and briefcase and carried them out the door. McCoy followed and soon the three of them took the elevator down to the lobby where Jim was waiting for them.

Spock placed the luggage in the taxi parked outside the hotel as Uhura gave McCoy a quick farewell hug. She patted his face congenially with a soft look in her almond eyes before turning to Jim.

Jim swept her up in a tight hug and McCoy was reminded of the same fondness Jim had shown Joanna. Uhura tossed her head back in delighted laughter when Jim finally let her go. She took a hold of his face, gently pinching his cheeks between her black-painted nails.

"Good bye, my little graduate," she said, bringing his forehead down to her lips.

"Feel free to pinch my cheeks any time you want," Jim winked before turning his head to kiss her sweetly on the cheek.

Spock, meanwhile, had returned to the small group. McCoy extended a hand out in way of good-bye, but the taller man once more refused the contact.

"Bye, Spock," Jim exclaimed, scooping his friend into a hug despite the sudden stiffness that took hold of Spock's body.

"Farewell, Jim," Spock answered once Jim released him. A small smile made its way to his lips as he regarded his friend. "It was an agreeable visit."

"Would have been better if you had gotten drunk," Jim admitted with a shiteating grin McCoy knew so well. "But hey, maybe next time, right?"

"No," Spock deadpanned, the smile long gone from his face. Jim just laughed and slung an arm around Spock's shoulders as they walked out to the taxi.

There was an ease to their friendship visible to the naked eye. McCoy wondered if he and Jim shared that same sort of tangible closeness that others could spot a mile away.

Everyone shared their final good-byes and once Spock and Uhura drove off in the taxi, Jim and McCoy stood there watching the car until it was lost in the traffic.

"So," McCoy said, breaking the silence. "China in the fall?"

"You'd consider it?" Jim asked, his voice a mix of surprise and hopefulness.

A bittersweet surge of déjà vu struck McCoy as he was suddenly reminded of how Jim had distracted him when he had seen Joanna off at the airport. Now it was his turn to repay the favor.

"I think it would be a lot of fun to see them again," he agreed.

Jim could only smile in response.

* * *

Most people came to conclusions over long periods of time spent thinking. They would mull over ideas, examine the different sides of a situation. They would recall their feelings and reactions to past actions and events. All in all, the process was long and precise.

McCoy, however, was cut from a different mold. Halfway through shampooing his hair, he realized:

"Shit. I'm in a relationship with Jim."

That night, his hair was destined to be poorly shampooed as he stood in his shower in a stupor, nothing moving except for the stream of water steadily pouring over his still form.

And yet, despite the haze that McCoy was sure he would perpetually live in, he found a way to turn off the water and wrap a navy towel around his waist. The air around him was steamy, the mirror so fogged up that he couldn't see the soap still inhabited in his water-darkened hair. McCoy walked out the door, through his room, and into the living room where Jim sat at the computer, presumably checking his e-mail.

"Hey Bones," he said casually without looking up from his computer. When McCoy didn't answer, he glanced up with a curious smile that soon morphed into a more shocked expression. "Um, Bones? You okay there, buddy?"

McCoy was only dimly away of his towel'd status and his disheveled, soapy hair.

"I like you!" he announced without a second further. Even in his own ears, it sounded a bit accusing, as though Jim had somehow hoodwinked him into it.

Jim blinked a few times, his expression hopeful. But the hope quickly faded from his face as indifference covered it. McCoy felt a twist of guilt knowing that he had caused Jim to be this doubtful.

"Oh wow," Jim snarked with a roll of his eyes. "If only you had told me earlier. Then we could have spent the past year or so spending time together and going to weddings and moving in together." He pursed his lips for a second and tapped a finger to his chin. "Oh wait." Jim paused for a moment and let the thoughtful look melt away into an amused expression. "Fuck you, Bones. I already know we're friends."

"No, I mean I _like_ you," McCoy stressed. One hand gripped the towel and the other motioned frantically between himself and Jim as though that movement alone would be enough to explain.

There were only a handful of times when McCoy could remember Jim being completely still and completely silent. This was one of them. Jim blinked several times, his tongue running over his lips as though he were trying to find the words to say. The only sound between them was the constant _drip_ of water hitting the hallway tile.

"Oh," Jim breathed, allowing the beginnings of a smile to cut across his handsome features. "Well, that's a horse of a different color…"

The silent spell was broken and words were tumbling out McCoy's mouth practically faster than he could speak them.

"You're right," he started, referencing to what Jim had just said. "We spent so much time together ever since we met. And the wedding? You're the reason I managed to be with my daughter again. I never would have had the gumption to face Jocelyn otherwise. You helped me move on with my life." He smiled gratefully for a second as his mind raced for other examples of why Jim meant so much to him. "Nancy, remember Nancy? I couldn't be with her because of you."

"Really?" Jim asked, eyes widening. "I didn't know that."

"Well," McCoy admitted sheepishly. "I didn't realize it until I started using the shampoo."

"Where the hell do you buy your shampoo?" Jim smirked, seemingly amused by the comment.

"Shut up and let me tell you how I feel, dammit!" McCoy snapped, wanting to explain everything now that he finally understood it. He finally understood the flutters and the strange twisting in his stomach, and all the weird sensations he had been ignoring since that first day he met Jim.

Jim stood from his seat and took a few steps closer to McCoy until they were only a few steps apart.

"How do you feel?" Jim asked softly, the hopefulness creeping back into his voice.

McCoy stopped for a moment, his hands tentatively reaching out for a moment to touch Jim's shoulders. His fingertips dug gently into the pliant flesh, pulling Jim closer to him.

"This is the happiest I've ever been," he admitted shakily and honestly.

"Wow," Jim said with eyebrows raised. "Seriously?"

"Just shut up and kiss me," McCoy gruffed, moving towards Jim until their lips were a breadth apart from each other. McCoy could feel Jim's hot breath brush over his cheeks.

"Demanding," Jim chuckled. "I like that."

As he spoke, he brought his mouth to McCoy's, Jim's lips brushing over his as he spoke. Then Jim pressed harder against him, McCoy pressing back with equal force. Their mouths opened smoothly, their tongues slick against each others. McCoy could feel something hot course through his veins as though the arteries under his skin were bursting alive. Jim's hands gripped McCoy's still-wet shoulders as McCoy laid a hand on the back of Jim's head, deepening their kiss.

Several minutes or hours or days passed when Jim finally pulled away. They leaned their foreheads against each other, panting heavily. Jim placed kisses all over McCoy's face, raining down on his skin with affection. McCoy swiftly turned his head to return the favor when Jim pulled away.

"What's wrong?" McCoy asked quickly, wondering what he had done wrong this time.

Jim smiled through swollen lips, his expression setting McCoy at ease. The doctor could feel the tension leave his body just as quickly as it arrived.

"I want to be a lot of different things to you, Bones," Jim promised, his hand fisted in McCoy's hair as he kept their faces close. "But I refuse to be the man who took advantage of you while you are wearing nothing but a towel." He let go of McCoy's hair and backed away with a smirk.

For the first time since he had gotten out of the shower, McCoy was very aware of his wet and practically naked body. His hands quickly gripped the towel at his waist as he laughed low in his throat.

"Although," Jim continued, his eyes darkened by their kiss. "I'll be the first to admit it, you wear it well."

McCoy allowed the compliment to warm him as he smiled at Jim's typical behavior. He watched as Jim walked over to the kitchen sink to wash off the shampoo residue that had gotten on his hands.

"So, tomorrow?" McCoy asked. He wasn't really sure what he was hoping would happen the next day, but he felt a certain comfort in asking Jim all the same.

"Bones," Jim turned and smiled, "we have tomorrow and the rest of our lives."

* * *

_Ladies and gentlemen (actually, are there any guys reading this?), may I present to you the new title for this verse: __**Post-It Verse**__. After much deliberation of what to call it, **icesamzerop **on LiveJournal finally suggested it to me. So, thank you!_

_Also, I want to give a huge thank you to **cookiechris80 **on LiveJournal who came up with Uhura's line "Love happens to different people at different times."_

_As I mentioned in the previous chapter, this story is almost at an end. This is the last "official" chapter and then there is a final epilogue. Once again, I'm hoping to post the chapter before I go back to college on Tuesday. If anyone has any requests as to moments or scenes or questions they want answered in the next chapter, let me know! I'll try to include them if I can._

_Thank you to everyone who has been enjoying this story so far. :D_


	15. of Epilogues and Closure

_I. HAVE. FINISHED._

_**Notes**: This is the Post-It Verse. This AU takes place about 20 minutes in the future in San Francisco._

_**Disclaimer**: I own The Final Countdown as my ringtone, but I don't own Star Trek._

_Just a compliation of scenes post-relationship. Fluff and cuteness and scenes that I wrote that never really made it into the story before now. Enjoy._

* * *

Nearly two weeks after their first tentative (well, "tentative" as compared to Jim, who was like a living locomotive) steps into their relationship, Jim looked out the window. It was a clear, sunny day with the first taste of autumn in the San Francisco air.

"It's the perfect day for The Talk," he declared, one fist held in the air triumphantly.

Bemused, bewildered, and befuddled, McCoy found himself being tugged out of the house by an overly-eager Jim. He allowed Jim to gabber away at him, talking about the importance of a healthy relationship as they made their way towards the main street.

"I just need to know that you really want to be with me. I'm young, I don't want to stay in a relationship that isn't going to work," Jim reiterated, emphatically gesturing with his hands. "I'm hot, I'm smart, I'm talented. I could take my show on the road any day of the week!"

McCoy really wasn't trying to sidestep the question, but he literally could not physically stop himself from rolling his eyes and responding to Jim's overzealous confidence.

"Your arrogance knows no bounds."

"I really am spectacular, aren't I?" Jim responded, his eyes crinkling from the broad smile decorating his face.

"Sure," McCoy agreed half-heartedly. He sighed deeply and then turned his gaze fully on Jim. When he spoke again, his voice was much more serious. "Anyway, I'm really in this. I'm here to stay."

Jim smiled again, showing less carnivorous teeth and more sincere softness. "That's all I need to hear." He winked over at McCoy and looked beyond him at the burger joint they had first visited that fateful day McCoy had elbowed Jim in the face.

"Now, c'mon," he announced, pulling at McCoy's sleeve endearingly as he led them towards the restaurant. "It's your lucky day, asshole. You get to buy me a burger."

So, apparently, the price of this sort of relationship was $1.75.

* * *

Jim threw open McCoy's bedroom door and interrupted the doctor from his medical journals. Said doctor was not amused.

"I was watching that weird show with Patrick Stewart from the eighties and it has revolutionized my life." He paused for dramatic effect. "I have decided I want to be a spaceship pilot!"

McCoy gave Jim his "what the hell" eyebrow. Which, really, was only a fraction of a centimeter lower than his "this shit is un-fucking-believable" eyebrow and a fraction of a centimeter higher than his "I'm only pretending to act interested" eyebrow. But if anyone could ever know the difference, it would be Jim.

"Oh, don't give me your 'what the hell' eyebrow."

Hmm. Maybe they were spending a little too much time together.

* * *

In retrospect, McCoy should have been proud of Jim for lasting through four paychecks before finally buying something completely unnecessary.

However, that didn't stop him from bitching about how they seriously did not need a gaming system.

"But Bones," Jim whined, "it'll be fun!" He held out the non-descript kung-foo game he had purchased.

McCoy looked between the game (which, admittedly, did look more entertaining than the work he had to file away) and Jim (who was giving him the best puppy eyes, damn him). After a moment's hesitation, he relented.

"Sure. I'll play a round. Can't be that bad."

_An hour later…_

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Jim yelled repeatedly as he jumped on top of McCoy's back.

"Motherfucker!" McCoy replied, his voice muffled by Jim's arm wrapped around his head.

The two men struggled against each other as they battled dominance on the television screen. Both of them madly smashing the keys on their controllers as their digital counterparts kicked each other's asses on the screen.

"Son of a bitch, I will kill you so hard!" Jim swore as McCoy stumbled backwards.

His legs hit the back of the couch, his knees buckling at the weight as Jim twisted around him. McCoy fell backwards on the couch, Jim hitting the back cushions. The force of the impact caused Jim to lose his monkey hold on McCoy, which caused the doctor to leap away as though on fire.

Jim struggled to straighten out on the couch, but gravity worked against him. He slid backwards off the couch, facing the screen upside-down. His face grew steadily red as the blood rushed to his skull, his fingers stabbing madly on the controller.

"I AM KICKING YOUR ASS!"

_Another hour later…_

"Ow, ow, ow!" Jim yelped.

McCoy removed his hands from where they rested on Jim's side.

"Oh, shut the fuck up and quit being such a baby. You've got a few nasty bruises, but no broken ribs," McCoy informed him, lacking all bedside manner.

"Whatever," Jim said, brusquely brushing aside McCoy's insults. "I totally won."

"Are you kidding me? I won! You were the one bleeding on the screen." He paused before adding, "and on the carpet, too."

"That was you!" Jim insisted, lifting himself off the couch with an audible grunt.

"I was the one on the right!" McCoy snapped, poking Jim vindictively in the painful ribs.

Jim stopped, his expression falling.

"…Oh. So that means I was the one on the left." He waited until McCoy nodded before grinning deviously. "Rematch?"

Completely disregarding the medical bag on the floor beside him and Jim's hand pressed medicinally to his side, McCoy made the worst decision he had ever made as a doctor.

"You're on!"

* * *

Jim was rambling nervously. McCoy actually found it endearing and sweet, but he'd have to have a gun to his head to ever admit that.

"…I know you said that you wanted to go to China before, but you don't have to go if you don't want to," Jim continued as he washed the dishes after dinner. "I mean, I'd love it if you wanted to come, but I know that you are not a fan of flying and this would require you to be on the plane for a long time. It's perfectly safe, of course, but I know you don't always see it that way. Also, I know you hate taking time off of work and that you like to save your vacation days for when Joanna comes to visit and I really wouldn't want to take that away from you. I know we talked about going to China the second week of September next year, but we can change that if you want. Or I can just go. Or I don't have to go at all."

Jim spoke quickly, his soapy hands rushing across the surface of the pots and pans. McCoy looked up from the strainer he was drying to look at the younger man with concern. Did he really say all of that in one breath?

"Jim," he said, his eyes raised. Jim stopped what appeared to be his next train of thought and looked up anxiously. "I already bought the tickets."

Jim's entire face seemed to glow.

"Really?" he breathed, somewhat giddy and astonished.

"Yeah, really," McCoy grumped, suddenly uncomfortable from the sudden display of gratitude Jim was giving him. He was still getting used to Jim's heart-on-a-fucking-sleeve way of dealing with this.

"Thanks, Bones!" he cried happily, wrapping his arms around McCoy and landing a wet, slobbery kiss on the doctor.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," McCoy muttered, pulling away. But he let Jim see the shared smile on his face.

The two continued washing and drying the dishes in silence, occasionally flicking water on each other in their shared happiness.

* * *

McCoy came home from his night shift at the hospital at five in the morning, the sun just starting to brighten the sky to a lighter blue. Fully expecting the apartment to hold the same sort of sleepy silence that it always held during these lost hours, he was surprised to see Jim waiting for him at the kitchen table.

Jim told him he could sleep when he was dead and whisked him back out the door, racing him to the nearby playground. According to Jim, this was the best time to go to the park because then they didn't have to share any of the equipment with the little kids. What a better way to while away the hours, he asked.

McCoy could do nothing but grumble at Jim's antics, and yet he put down his medic bag and followed him out the door.

Jim ran ahead to the playground, his red jacket made him look a bit like the strangest reincarnation of Little Red Riding Hood that McCoy had ever seen. By the time McCoy caught up to Jim, Jim was crawling on top of the monkey bars, despite McCoy's repeated warnings that people weren't supposed to climb them that way.

Jim then challenged him to a contest on the swings, saying that if he jumped further from the swings, then McCoy couldn't boss him around anymore.

Unwilling to let Jim win a contest (and partially because the use of the old playset was making McCoy feel more like a child than he had in quite some time), McCoy agreed.

McCoy could feel the press of the gravel under his sneakers as they headed to the swings. Jim plopped into his seat without any grace, the creaks from the swings resisting the sudden weight. McCoy settled more carefully into the other swing, watching as Jim's legs began pumping into the air, his lean body shifting back and forth as the swing brought him closer and closer to the sky.

With a delighted yell, Jim told McCoy to join him. Without worrying about the consequences, McCoy kicked off from the ground, the sudden _whoosh _of air against his body causing him to smile broadly. The chains strained within his fists as he brought the swing to its highest point, his body lifting and falling back into the swing as he reached the peak of his swing.

Jim cried out one, two, three.

Both men pushed out of the swings, quickly letting go of the chains and falling down to the earth in increasing speed, laughing wildly all the way.

Jim won.

Although, McCoy was pretty sure that using the dew still thick on the grass as a means to slide forward on the ground was cheating. Not that Jim paid any attention to those accusations.

Instead, Jim pulled the collar of McCoy's jacket and brought him closer to the tetherball court. The sun rose higher in the sky as the early morning sounds of people waking up and driving to work filled the air around them. Paying no attention to the rest of the world, Jim and McCoy hit the tetherball back and forth until their palms were grimy and smelled of rubber.

McCoy hit the ball until it wound around the pole, letting out an uncharacteristic whoop of excitement when he realized he had beat Jim. Jim's infectious grin caught on and then McCoy found himself being the one to drag Jim over to the merry-go-round.

Jim settled himself in the middle as McCoy told him to hold on, his usually gruff voice brighter with glee. The feel of the rusty bars under his gripped hands dug into his skin as he ran around in circles, the merry-go-round screeching with the sudden friction.

When McCoy was sure he couldn't go any faster, he leapt up onto the quickly spinning platform and carefully made his way towards Jim. The two men lay down on the metal surface, cool from the early November air.

McCoy touched the small space between himself and Jim, barely separated from the bar in the middle, until he found Jim's hand and slipped his fingers through Jim's. He could feel their shared pulse as they both laughed and stared out at the sky directly above them, the clouds spinning madly overhead.

* * *

It only took a moment for McCoy to realize that the insulting Post-it note on his door was due to the snapping comment he had made about Jim's drunken behavior the night before. Jim was screaming "I just want to wear cowboy boots!" in the bar and McCoy may or may not have said that he held his liquor like a fifteen-year-old girl.

He held the Post-it in his hand, frowning, as he tried to smooth down his sleep-tousled hair.

_Farouche [fA-Roosh]  
__-adjective, French  
__1. sullenly unsociable or shy  
__2. socially inept  
__[from French, from Old French _faroche_ , from Late Latin _forasticus_ from without, from Latin _foras_ out of doors]_

Actually, he had to smile a little. It was at least something original. Placing the Post-it note onto his desk, he stepped out of his bedroom and soon found Jim sitting on the couch watching cartoons.

Without further ado, he smacked Jim upside the head and walked over to the kitchen to make some breakfast.

"Fuck you, sweetheart!" Jim responded endearingly, his gaze not moving from the television.

"Up yours, darling," McCoy returned with the same cheery disposition as he got out the eggs.

Just a regular day…

* * *

"I love you."

Jim said it simply, as though just throwing it out in conversation, as though he were merely announcing he wanted mashed potatoes for dinner (which he did, incidentally. He had talked about it earlier.).

McCoy looked around them, wondering if there was a hamburger around or a Harrison Ford movie playing. When he found neither of those things (and thus nothing that Jim would admit his love to so openly), he looked at the younger man.

Jim smiled from the other side of the couch and scooted over until his thigh was pressed against McCoy's. He tucked his head into the crook of McCoy's shoulder, his shortened hair tickling the doctor's neck. Then he snatched the blanket that was hanging over the edge of the couch and covered them both with it. Folding himself more deeply into McCoy, he snuggled in and apparently hoped to spend this hour or so before dinner in quiet comfort.

"I love you," he repeated, his voice somewhat muffled from nuzzling McCoy's neck.

McCoy draped an arm over Jim's shoulder, letting the weight of Jim's words settle around him. There was a time when those words would have sent him running and yelling and straight into a cabinet full of whiskey. But now?

McCoy let the embarrassingly happy feeling swell in his stomach and overtake his senses until he was pretty sure he would melt or even maybe ooze rainbows and unicorns.

Jim looked up somewhat expectantly as McCoy tried to find the right words to say.

"Dammit, Jim," he gruffed, his tone not compliant with the soft smile curling on his lips.

Jim laughed and said something about Bones being an old man before the two of them lapsed into comfortable silence, their heartbeats erratic and beating together, their warm bodies entangled in each other, and the comfort that they both understood what McCoy meant settled down around them.

* * *

_And that is the end of Post-It Verse. I hope you all have enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it._

_This started out much differently than I anticipated. This is the first story that I have ever written without any sort of plan or chapter-by-chapter storyline that was worked out before the actual writing took place. I was making it up as I went along, which was, in a way, freeing. I have never done anything like that and it was interesting to see how much my story plans could change during the course of the actual writing. Will I try it again? I don't know. It was a bit nerve wracking to not know what was coming next. But overall, I am very happy how this worked out. Honestly, I just meant this to be a sort of experiment and never expected it to be this long and involved. Funny how things work out, isn't it?_

_Now to upset everyone: I will not be writing a sequel. If anything, I might write a few one-shots and post them separately, but otherwise this story has finished. If anyone else would like to write a story in the Post-It verse, just let me know. You're welcome to add to this verse, but I'd like some notice. :)_

_I want to thank the Academy... No, seriously, I do want to thank everyone who has read this story. And favorited and alerted and lurked, everything. And for those of you who wrote reviews? You are amazing. Seriously, amazing. Some of you reviewed every chapter or joined in on the party later on and some of you wrote me PMs when I was slacking in updates. I don't think I could have written this without your constant support. Thank you, all of you._


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